When writing is a bird

with a beak at a typewrighter ink dipped pecking out letters for words; words can be grouped to hide meaning, to manipulate and twist truths until they are straight.

Sometime, though, bird is well skilled at peeling back the fleshy onion to reveal its layers...

Bird moves close to me, hopping around the desk or jumping onto my head becoming jumbled in its hairs. We rest together, have done a lot of dreaming together. It may surprise that I have never given him the full set of ears that he needs to sing true.

"Your song," I have figured, "is like all the other writing birds' songs, but not quite as clever, and never as bright." I have felt that if his song was writ, it would never be the write words.

This sad little bird has been kept on leash, moving for exersize with a tethered throat and heart-bound. Every sometimes I like the shape he makes, the sounds he make, or a stucture made with his industrious beak. But could I concieve of the words in a world where he is sitting beside me untethered?

Birds fly on. And friends, and I would do the same with someone who's kept me tied up. When we dream, though, he and I share a will for freedom. I compose letters in the daylight hours and he watchs as I work in a hazy mess. I have been writing letters. He watches. I should listen. Anyways, he's been poorly trained if at all, and I don't have much of the will for keeping him tied up any longer. It suits him to be set free and it suits me to love freely: to know friendship by him.

I will listen for his song.