This morning I watched a tiny baby bird take its last little breath, his chest puff out and then settle, his feathers lay flat and his head tilted back and his feet curled up underneath himself
a fatal game of cat and mouse, and the mouse chirped from under the kitchen table and with every yell the clench of the felines jaw tightened and if I could bring anyone back from the dead, it would be that little bird.
so soft and vulnerable, sleeping black and white in my pale palms.
I know its in his nature to hunt, but its in my nature to love, and this bird was so worthy, worthy of flying and seeing the sky and finding worms and maybe in the mornings he would have sang me awake and come to perch on my bird feeder, but war is an age old tale that continues on and nature has a way of being cruel
I can't stop picturing his little body, his tiny heart that probably loved as much as a baby bird could
I can't stop creating metaphors out of this scenario
where sometimes i'm the baby bird, and sometimes, i'm the cat.
and I hope that my foolish games and tendency to play never takes away the opportunity for happiness from anyone
I never want to be the cat, but I also never want to be the baby bird.
But I'll never want to be happy off the backs of another, and that's enough to make me choose the bird if the tables were turned.