A Summer Bird's Winter Perch


A Summer Bird's Winter Perch

  I watch this lonely bird chirp upon a slopping branch. Its feet wrapped firmly around the thin finger of bark. As I watch, I commiserate its position. Sitting there, alone, singing with no others to listen. Speaking I assume, to itself.

  Maybe contemplating its unfortunate circumstance. For the rest had already left for the winter. If I am not mistaken it was only a few days ago that I watched a flurry of birds dart by. Their wings flapping against the brisk wind collectively. Not a single one appeared worried of their journey.

  Their shadows crawled quickly across the empty streets during a fall evening. I watched them pass by like a feather floating down stream. I couldn't help but wonder, how long must they fly? What winds must they fight, what elements must they battle against? All must be against them as is every moment in time is against us all?

  Yet they fly forth to the heat of earth. Dependent upon their survival but, what about this lonely bird? This one perched upon this thimble of a branch. I think, we are much alike, different from the masses and understand the dangers of staying behind. The harshness that shall follow and vitriolic moments of loneliness that will consume.

  But all this will harden us for the snow covered days. The howling winds of winter and the bitter strangle of lonely thoughts as we sit alone to keep warm. Watching as others pass by hand in hand laughing with joyful smiles.

  How lonely it must be for this bird, for truly no others can understand it. Not even I, for I am but an assumptive soul sitting idly observing this creatures behavior. I have no insight, no extra lens to pierce the barrier between us. We are separate in thought, separate in point of view.

  For what I see from the ground, this bench, may be no more than an object of distinction to the bird. How do you say...a landmark? Merely sign of direction. Then again, the birds sees what I cannot and for that bird, what I cannot see does not exist. It is shrouded in height, blocked by trees, buildings, the curving of earth.

 Perched high, much more is seen and I am blind to what this bird knows as is the bird blind to what I know. But as I watch this bird, its heading turning vigorously to each second. I can relate, for it must be exciting, yet frightful to be the first.

 To cease the original and begin a new. For as lonely as this cold and quiet path may be. There is much to see, to venture to and try. Much most will never know, will never see, nor even hear of. As I watch this bird I see myself and maybe it see it in I.

  But what ever either of us sees, I pray for only the best for us to come. Let our chirping voices in the silence be heard by our hearts and let the low hanging branch be our perch of solitude and design.
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What path have you taken that few or no other has?

Can we live if we follow? A Man's traveled Heart
Coming soon, The Bleeding Of Words

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