A black bird sits on my windowsill.
Mocking me with its unlaboured loyalty to the present moment.
I wonder if it remembers all the valleys it flew over, all the food it pecked on.
I yearn to know all the birds it must have known.
What it felt like to feel the wind under its wings for the first time?
Does it remember?
A black bird stands behind the windowsill.
Mocked and dawned with the task of laboured living.
Apr 27, 2020
Apr 27, 2020 at 10:41 AM UTC
A black bird sits on my windowsill.
Mocking me with its unlaboured loyalty to the present moment.
I wonder if it remembers all the valleys it flew over, all the food it pecked on.
I yearn to know all the birds it must have known.
What it felt like to feel the wind under its wings for the first time?
Does it remember?
A black bird stands behind the windowsill.
Mocked and dawned with the task of laboured living.
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