Through the skies it is a bird that flies. Not a plane, and certainly not Superman. Not at this hour at least, it is too dark for him to be out. So it must be a bird then. A large bird, it is seen from this depth; an eagle perhaps, or a hawk. Not an albatross, they don’t come by here. Pterodactyls only exist in stories. In the past they once were alive, but now stories is all that’s left for them. So a large, real bird. It does not matter really what type of bird, not to the person looking. So who is it that’s looking? Why it’s you, it is your eyes that see this bird high above. This bird it’s just diven down (fast fact diven is not a word, but when it is your mind anything can happen). It hasn’t gone for prey, if it had it's left empty, not reaching the ground before its wings are once again spilt out for flight. Soaring, cascading, find a word and put it to this bird, they all fit. What’s that you consider, there must be words that do not define this creature. Throw one to the air then, let in mull amongst the clouds and see what returns to the mind. It will fit. It is amongst these clouds that your word is thrown, that this bird flies. Dipping in, dipping out, swathing a vision of indecision. Much like that sentence wouldn’t you say. Where will this bird be tomorrow, it cannot fly forever. There will be a time, when the feathers settle beneath themselves, and the narrow eyes close to accept the dreams that wake. In the morning the bird will rise to join the sun’s waking song. But for now the birds flies.
Flies, a curious word, what can be made from it. Fly, flying, flight. A word to rise amongst the sky’s prison and set the world free. Flight. Take what you think of it, take what the dictionary says, and throw it. Throw it, as you did a word to describe the bird, to the clouds, but do not let it be like a boomerang, do not let it mull and return. Let it keep going, past the clouds, past the air, out into the stars. Let the moon consider what a bird is, whereas as you consider what a bird is. Such a difference wouldn’t you think. It will however, be different to the person walking past on the sidewalk, you stand in the street. Flight. A bird lets its wings go to flight. A person, only wishes for it. But a person lets themselves be taken like the bird on a passage through the breeze of flight. Out they can go, out, up, down, sideways too. They will not be flying, but they will be in flight.
Ah this bird is growing further, vanishing more amongst the clouds. The time to watch is over, the time to think has come. So think, as the bird disappears, think. Of what, it is not named here, of what it does not matter. Just think. Perhaps the bird will be on your mind, perhaps the person on the sidewalk. And perhaps if you think, just let yourself think, you will be like the bird, and be taken on a passage through the breeze of flight.
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Short Story / Other
Miscellaneous / Non-Fiction
Book / Romance
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