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

a bird moves close to me, hopping around the desk & 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.