Of a Feather

Little egg in the nest; could be any color or size in any roost for that matter. What’s forming in that thin shell as tough to the brittle beak as a roof to an axe when the water is flooding in? Will you take to the skies, when those wings unfurl like sails and beat against the wind, or will they be the black, scaly rutters in the freezing waters on top and beneath the globe?

Will you age? Age comfortably in a cage, warm and safe on the scorching and snowy days? Are the rocky porches to the salty ocean where you will lean back-and-forth in motion? Scavenging on what our narrow-minded kin discard and dis-regard?

What things will you sing? Sing when you wish you could be widening the scope of your life or flying through fatigue until your time of dying? Calling out to the sun that’s rising and scratching and laying, all the while mystifying over classifying yourself among others of your kind.

I could barely make a mark, with my substitute for talons and hyper-active mind, on the way you differ or even how my own do. Sometimes, we both make beauty by accident and do things that shine; both of us in deserts and by wide water under an expanse of sky. We can be found picking out of the gutters, flocked in popular squares, and emerald hills of fog and rain: impaling our prey to eat them piece by piece.

I like to think you easier to make sense of, as you probably do of us, and if I never do you justice at least you did me some.

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