Time For Me To Fly

It’s a snowy Sunday here in Oklahoma and the wind is blowing hard outside.

I’m waiting in the kitchen for “the boys” to get home from doing morning chores, the griddle is hot and the pancake mix is waiting to be poured. You can’t make pancakes ahead of time, cold pancakes suck, so I’m patiently waiting. There is a bird just outside our fence line trying to fly…it gets up and goes about two feet before getting pushed back by a wind gust three feet. It then disappears in the tall drifts of grass and snow, only to pop back up and try again. I caught myself watching the bird, and silently cheering for it. I don’t know where it thinks it’s going, if there is a warm, dry place in it’s head and it’s determined to get back there. Do birds have thoughts? Do they have memories and feelings? Any young boy with a BB gun will claim no, but we had a talking, cussing parrot once, and I would have to disagree. Henry was a good bird…he loved bacon and eggs, pretending to fly, and to join in on conversations with a “What the Hell?” and other phrases he learned from his previous owners. I know he’d laugh if we were laughing and liked to be annoying, he was a pain in the ass, but we loved that bird. I stopped watching the bird in the field to make pancakes, so I don’t know if she made it…if she ever caught a break and got up in the sky away from the gusts which kept pulling her back. I hope she’s in the barn up on the hill, shaking her feathers, drying out, maybe eating some left over grain.

You kind of have to like anything human or bird which refuses to let bad days keep them down.

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