I’ve always seen feathers.
Floating in the air,
Bound to dreamcatchers,
Dangling off my own ears
And sometimes as a quill.
For all the times they touched my face
I never thought about the birds
never wondered about their flights of fancy
While shuttling away on one of my own.
Then, one day, in the same way that sunscreen taught me,
I encountered a bird with clipped wings
It seemed to be happily hopping about.
I held it, with delicate care, and
Asked a politically incorrect question,
Just as carelessly.
‘Don’t you wish to fly?
Don’t you wish to be in the sky?’
It cocked its head,
once to the left,
And once to the right,
It looked at me intently,
And then at the chains on my feet.
‘For exactly the reason you don’t run, I don’t fly.’
I walked away with a clang,
Slow, and cumbersome,
quite like how I felt,
I looked back
to watch it looking at the sky,
Gazing at the blues and grey reflect
In the puddle it splashed in,
(The title was the trigger. The muse was amused.)