Fancy
I might someday become a birder. I do have that competitive gene, and I love to see the Barnegat ospreys, redwings, bobtails, and here even the ho-hum cactus wren. I used to have a bird: Sydney, tiny affectionate parakeet. He perched on the ceiling pipes; he tangled in my hair at nape and ear. Little Sydney— cheerful hops, friction of his hell-bent wings. A medievalist once told me a bird is always what pistols always are— and I believe this. Sydney liked to rub his head against my eyes, and I love to do this with you, my bird in the hand, my love, my flight.
Comments (0)
Show/hide comments
Show/hide comment form