HOME | DD

Description
I caught a bird, the other day. Opened my window, leaned out, and there it was, right in front of me. Almost like it wanted to be grabbed. Strange little thing, all bones and breath and that frightened heartbeat thudding against my fingers - and warm, warm as blood.

I cradled it in my hands and, fingers cupped tight around it, pulled my arms back in and tugged the window closed with my elbow. Not locked, mind you - just closed enough it wouldn't fly away the moment I let it go. Not before I'd had a chance to look at it, anyway.

I sat down, back against the wall. Opened my hands.

The bird stood there, balanced on the platform of my overlapping palms, tilted its head on one side and looked at me.

I looked back. It was a strange kind of a bird, all told - unblinking little black eyes, red-tipped claws, and feathers that, once I looked closer, looked more than a little odd.

It tilted its head to the other side, eye fixed on my face. Hopped closer on my palms. Spread its wings, slowly (odd gesture, on something so small. More the kind of thing you'd expect from an eagle, or an owl. Not something I could hold in my cupped hands). Looked at me again.

And, suddenly, I saw. They weren't feathers. They were words.

I leaned forward, and read.

An hour later, I opened the window on the other side of the room. The one that led to the world. And I let the bird go. Watched it, as it flew. Wondered whose window it'd end up flying through next. Where in the world they'd be. What they'd think, when they read the story. What they'd do.

Wondered, as I did so, who'd made the bird in the first place. Whose words. Whose thoughts.

And, left in three-toed tracks on the palms of my hands, whose blood.

Description
I caught a bird, the other day. Opened my window, leaned out, and there it was, right in front of me. Almost like it wanted to be grabbed. Strange little thing, all bones and breath and that frightened heartbeat thudding against my fingers - and warm, warm as blood.

I cradled it in my hands and, fingers cupped tight around it, pulled my arms back in and tugged the window closed with my elbow. Not locked, mind you - just closed enough it wouldn't fly away the moment I let it go. Not before I'd had a chance to look at it, anyway.

I sat down, back against the wall. Opened my hands.

The bird stood there, balanced on the platform of my overlapping palms, tilted its head on one side and looked at me.

I looked back. It was a strange kind of a bird, all told - unblinking little black eyes, red-tipped claws, and feathers that, once I looked closer, looked more than a little odd.

It tilted its head to the other side, eye fixed on my face. Hopped closer on my palms. Spread its wings, slowly (odd gesture, on something so small. More the kind of thing you'd expect from an eagle, or an owl. Not something I could hold in my cupped hands). Looked at me again.

And, suddenly, I saw. They weren't feathers. They were words.

I leaned forward, and read.

An hour later, I opened the window on the other side of the room. The one that led to the world. And I let the bird go. Watched it, as it flew. Wondered whose window it'd end up flying through next. Where in the world they'd be. What they'd think, when they read the story. What they'd do.

Wondered, as I did so, who'd made the bird in the first place. Whose words. Whose thoughts.

And, left in three-toed tracks on the palms of my hands, whose blood.