Sore Must Be The Storm

I was writing at my desk. The window o the left lets in good writing light. Behind me, the big living room window gives a view of the immediate world. As I wrote, I heard a hard thunk on that front window and knew what had happened.

Two tiny feathers stuck to the glass. On the patio below lay a small bird. My heart sunk. Things have been weighing on me more than usual.

In the opinion section of Sunday's paper a guy writes that the orange maggot is his president and mine too. Talk about making my heart sink. I worry our democracy is doomed and may have already died. I didn't think it was as fragile a thing as the hollow bones of a small bird, but there it lies.

Burdened by this sadness, I made some lunch and ate by myself wondering what to do about all these things. Feeling, despite my thoughts otherwise, that I have to do something.

After lunch, I came back to the living room to read. Just before sitting down, I looked at the window. The two tiny feathers have come unstuck and blown away. Dreading the sight of it, I looked down at the patio.

The bird had flown away.

Turns out that this thing I thought dead was only stunned. Had I watched, I would have seen its eyes open and its wings returning it to the air. I didn't have the patience for that, nor the faith.

Still, the bird flew away. Twenty minutes removed from despair, I find hope, the thing with feathers, has taken wing and my heavy heart along with it.