fine, feathered friend
She had said, This is that part of you that will not even show one small withering, one weakening wall in the tiniest of its veins. She said to me, That is the only part worth killing off. And so we begin. Again.
So, I'll give you this.
You are so lovely and stealth and strong, so fascinating in ways that machines perplex. Before you arrive, before you even reach your midpoint, I can taste the sound of your feathers beating through the air. And by that time, you are almost here.
You move so quickly, and over ground. Flying even (to keep with the metaphor). I hardly have time to take phone calls while I wait for you to land.
Fast-sailing ship. Fast sailing-ship. Flying, as the crow flies, as the universe inverts. There you are, small eyes on the sides of your head, and I can hear your last meal languishing in your entrails.
Well, it's true. Dramatic, but true.
Maybe there's just some part of you that might land gently this time, just this once. How about it? Just for kicks? You could perch even, momentarily. You might consider for a moment the beauty of this branch and how green these woods are. You might play the cloud game or sharpen your beak.
This is not the time to give advice. There is no time, really. I should keep that in mind: Do not give advice to anyone with talons when you have none yourself. At least not from so close up.
We were traveling by the water, small and big circles of us, and I had said that if you would only pace yourself then the hills would not be hills and the motion would seem motionless. You laughed at me, and not in a kind way, and I laughed back (loudly).
Yes, I know: You fly so fast and over ground, in this and everything.
If you would only pace yourself. Redundant, but true. You are missing the best parts, really, and only feeling the weight of your breath and the pull of gravity. If you would turn circles upon circles, then maybe there wouldn't be all of that burrowing away from you, scrambling under leaf piles, and slithering between rocks.
And speaking of.
Why you feel the need to eat every blessed thing in your path, I'll never understand.
So, I'll give you this.
You are so lovely and stealth and strong, so fascinating in ways that machines perplex. Before you arrive, before you even reach your midpoint, I can taste the sound of your feathers beating through the air. And by that time, you are almost here.
You move so quickly, and over ground. Flying even (to keep with the metaphor). I hardly have time to take phone calls while I wait for you to land.
Fast-sailing ship. Fast sailing-ship. Flying, as the crow flies, as the universe inverts. There you are, small eyes on the sides of your head, and I can hear your last meal languishing in your entrails.
Well, it's true. Dramatic, but true.
Maybe there's just some part of you that might land gently this time, just this once. How about it? Just for kicks? You could perch even, momentarily. You might consider for a moment the beauty of this branch and how green these woods are. You might play the cloud game or sharpen your beak.
This is not the time to give advice. There is no time, really. I should keep that in mind: Do not give advice to anyone with talons when you have none yourself. At least not from so close up.
We were traveling by the water, small and big circles of us, and I had said that if you would only pace yourself then the hills would not be hills and the motion would seem motionless. You laughed at me, and not in a kind way, and I laughed back (loudly).
Yes, I know: You fly so fast and over ground, in this and everything.
If you would only pace yourself. Redundant, but true. You are missing the best parts, really, and only feeling the weight of your breath and the pull of gravity. If you would turn circles upon circles, then maybe there wouldn't be all of that burrowing away from you, scrambling under leaf piles, and slithering between rocks.
And speaking of.
Why you feel the need to eat every blessed thing in your path, I'll never understand.