Wings Connect at the Spine

A bewildered bird sits on a fence. A piece of paper in its blunt talons. A glint of will in its eyes. A soft breeze pushing at its back. Urging it to take flight into the open sky.

Where will you fly, swift one? To somewhere you long for or just see where the wind takes you? Will you follow others or make your own path? Through the shadowed trees, across meadows heavy with morning dew, close to the deep river and its earthy banks, heavy with waterdropplets, or close to the sun, where only warm clouds whisper to each other of things unknown.

What about the paper, little messenger? The paper is important. Did you forget? Someone has to take it. Flying about do you no good unless. Too heavy to bear without the prospect of an exchange. Deliver it. But where? Anywhere? No, you can choose. Choose somewhere.

What sort of messenger will you be, windsurfer? Will you wash in the river or the dew? Are your feathers shiny enough to meet anyone, or just the likes of yourself. Which branch do you want to visit, can you sit on the same as the owls? Or are the eagles more like home? Can you hope to be a swan or will the city swallow you, to work as one of its breadcrumb pigeons, who have long forgotten that they once filled the shrinking forest with song?

All you know is that you’ll have a future. But is any future enough? How long will it be? Where, when, why, how? The wind feels different, now, doesn’t it? Knowing this. Knowing nothing. Will you still tense at your spine, where your wings connect? Can you make it? Remember to take a dive in the river and soften your feathers in meadow grass, when you have the time. Now go.

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