(no subject)
He sits perched upon the grass, watching them play.
They are all small (they always are) and bouncing around with energy, full of life, full of grace and spirit all of them want to fly you can fly just jump higher
and one of them dares to jump, tiny feet leaving the earth.
(nobody ever understands used to that ones like him)
or why they are who they are.
This one does.
"You've been away, S."
"Far away."
"We've noticed."
"Still looking for a nest."
"Have you found one, yet?"
"No." Skellig plucks a blade of grass from the plush lawn beneath his feet, dirty shoes caked with grime and muck and dirt. "Have 27 and 53 there. And friends."
"Friends?"
"Yes, friends. Others who are not like them."
others who are like me
you're not a freak
The blade of grass twirls beneath his fingertips, and he watches the green blur against the blue sky overhead, the hint of wind so slight yet full of promise from the motion making him smile. For a moment he forgets where he is (nowhere, anywhere, somewhere) and is by the lakeshore, watching golden wings float upon the water.
He smiles.
"S."
"Yes?"
"Who have you met?"
"Lots of people. Nice people." He turns his eyes to the other man beside him. "Different than most. Don't get angry. Don't yell at me. Help, not hurt."
"Are you helping?"
"Not working."
"It's been awhile since you have."
"Am waiting for right one."
"There's always someone."
"The right one."
"Who?"
Skellig looks back at the little ones playing in the grass.
"Not sure yet. Maybe one of them. Maybe none. We'll see."
Another blade of grass comes free from the ground, tips of his fingers stained green as he smashes the fibers between his fingers. Another smile comes to his face, as he wonders what it might look like to be green everywhere.
"How long is it going to take?"
"Can't rush it."
hurry hurry gotta get
to work
to school
to the bus
to the doctor
to the next step
to the finish goal line
nobody ever stops
It goes quiet.
Skellig looks up, but they are all gone. Except for one.
He tilts his head, watching.
dirty sneakers sitting against the grass, tiny fingers plucking at the blades, too-pale skin dyed green
It goes still.
He tilts his head the other way, listening.
no wind in the trees, no sound of cars or people, no birds
He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a feather, carefully combing the edges of the vane, rearranging the barbs into a smooth, even surface. This one is not like the others.
this one is like me.
He smiles, and stands from his place on the grass, brushing the dirt and grass from his jeans.
The other one looks up at him, and smiles back.
"Hello."
"Hello."
The feather twirls in his fingertips as he walks closer, a near-silent whisp-whispwhisp-whisp of sound filling his ears. Air in motion (means freedom) is a beautiful thing.
The boy smiles, and Skellig places the feather on the edge of his fingers, before he allows it to fall towards the ground.
It falls.
It floats.
It flies.
When the child looks away from the feather (once it falls to the grass and he's plucked it gently from the grass at his feet) the man is gone, leaving nothing but a rush of air in his wake.
And that feather.
They are all small (they always are) and bouncing around with energy, full of life, full of grace and spirit all of them want to fly you can fly just jump higher
and one of them dares to jump, tiny feet leaving the earth.
(nobody ever understands used to that ones like him)
or why they are who they are.
This one does.
"You've been away, S."
"Far away."
"We've noticed."
"Still looking for a nest."
"Have you found one, yet?"
"No." Skellig plucks a blade of grass from the plush lawn beneath his feet, dirty shoes caked with grime and muck and dirt. "Have 27 and 53 there. And friends."
"Friends?"
"Yes, friends. Others who are not like them."
others who are like me
you're not a freak
The blade of grass twirls beneath his fingertips, and he watches the green blur against the blue sky overhead, the hint of wind so slight yet full of promise from the motion making him smile. For a moment he forgets where he is (nowhere, anywhere, somewhere) and is by the lakeshore, watching golden wings float upon the water.
He smiles.
"S."
"Yes?"
"Who have you met?"
"Lots of people. Nice people." He turns his eyes to the other man beside him. "Different than most. Don't get angry. Don't yell at me. Help, not hurt."
"Are you helping?"
"Not working."
"It's been awhile since you have."
"Am waiting for right one."
"There's always someone."
"The right one."
"Who?"
Skellig looks back at the little ones playing in the grass.
"Not sure yet. Maybe one of them. Maybe none. We'll see."
Another blade of grass comes free from the ground, tips of his fingers stained green as he smashes the fibers between his fingers. Another smile comes to his face, as he wonders what it might look like to be green everywhere.
"How long is it going to take?"
"Can't rush it."
hurry hurry gotta get
to work
to school
to the bus
to the doctor
to the next step
to the finish goal line
nobody ever stops
It goes quiet.
Skellig looks up, but they are all gone. Except for one.
He tilts his head, watching.
dirty sneakers sitting against the grass, tiny fingers plucking at the blades, too-pale skin dyed green
It goes still.
He tilts his head the other way, listening.
no wind in the trees, no sound of cars or people, no birds
He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a feather, carefully combing the edges of the vane, rearranging the barbs into a smooth, even surface. This one is not like the others.
this one is like me.
He smiles, and stands from his place on the grass, brushing the dirt and grass from his jeans.
The other one looks up at him, and smiles back.
"Hello."
"Hello."
The feather twirls in his fingertips as he walks closer, a near-silent whisp-whispwhisp-whisp of sound filling his ears. Air in motion (means freedom) is a beautiful thing.
The boy smiles, and Skellig places the feather on the edge of his fingers, before he allows it to fall towards the ground.
It falls.
It floats.
It flies.
When the child looks away from the feather (once it falls to the grass and he's plucked it gently from the grass at his feet) the man is gone, leaving nothing but a rush of air in his wake.
And that feather.