Flight

Susan Littlefield
Nov 1 · 1 min read
Photo: S. Littlefield

Three months after you jump
from the high red bridge,
the neighbors bring home an injured owl.
He is sick, near starving,
one wing hung crooked
by his pale chest.
He cannot fly, but hops about the cabin,
takes thawed mice in his bill,
gains strength.
He mends in time.
You did not.
You flew, a while.
You floated down, I guess, toward the bay,
knowing. Seeing the end most of us never see,
deep blue and August-sparkled through the fog.
You hid your injury, mostly.
We knew…

Keep the story going. Sign up for an extra free read.

You've completed your member preview for this month, but when you sign up for a free Medium account, you get one more story.
Already have an account? Sign in

Susan Littlefield

Written by

Wordgirl, birdgirl, sometime UX specialist. If I weren’t a writer, I’d want to be Louis Leakey or Jane Goodall. Or Charles Nelson Reilly.

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade