She’s nearly a stranger to me now. She was a bright sort of black-bird — the kind with the red scrape across the wing. Daring and rare. 18 years old and planning a move — 1,000 miles away, she thought it’d be just the space she needed, to get away from the place where people always interceded and told you who you were. After all she’d never been a bluejay or a lark, cunning, swift, songful, and gifted.. just a red winged black bird. Just the thing — and the bird was taking wing.
An international studies major — she’d know all there was to know about the whole world. Then she’s pin-prick a place and go there and calmly become so immune and comfortable in a strange land that rulers would be asking her — to be their ambassador — and so the plan was made and followed. Just the thing — so the bird took wing.
Two years got her somewhat closer — every country in the world she knew some of. Her second language became homework, the second bird began to sing. I wouldn’t know her if I saw her, bundled out there on the streets — chin held high without a question, such a defiant bold little thing. If I could go to her and show her, softly — quietly what she would be. When her winter coat had molted — a sparrow would sit to welcome spring.
No outside notice is there of the blackbird but I remember her nonetheless. She sits on windows in large cities, she wouldn’t sing, she wont know how. Watching others swoop to catch wind drifts, the quiet one nests solemnly. Not without dreams or expectation of adventure –the plan is made with many hopes. oh and just the thing — you’ll see the stripe if a lift my wing.