I Really Want to Fly

I saw a bird on the road today. It was a beautiful color, a blue that made me feel like it was a piece of the sky, which had floated down to add some color to the flat, grey of the road.

It was still. Dead.

I closed my eyes, seeing the bird, soaring, wings spread to caress the winds. I imagined it dancing in the air, proud to be flying. Proud to be alive.

It looked broken now. Small and weak. As rumbling cars passed over it, and fumes were blown onto it. And I shuddered.

Never will it get the fresh taste of the clouds again. It will be chained to this Earth, this foul ball of dirt and smoke.

I stood staring, from the side walk. Watching the menacing cars, glinting and dangerous, cross over the pile of broken wings and feathers.

A dirty plastic bag caught my eye, as it fluttered, snagged by a twig.

My mind suddenly felt released of the clenching hands of my conscious and I walked over and ripped the bag free.

I cautiously looked down the road, left and right, an instinct which had been pounded into me by my elders. I wrapped the bag around my hand and walked toward the bird.

I reached out to the broken sapphire wonder and picked it up, gently.

I rushed back to the sidewalk, not wanting to become roadkill, my human cowardice taking over.

I put the small mass of blue feathers down by a tree and backed away from it.

Rest in peace. And in disbelief, I had reached up with the hand not clutching the bag and wiped my wet eyes.

I realize now. I was not crying for the poor bird. Even if it was now held to the Earth, it had already taken its flight.

My wish was that before the Earth took me, I too could lift my feet of the soil, and taste the clouds.