I know pigeons are rats with wings, but when the flock moved, I stopped. I closed my eyes and felt wings on my shoulders. Soft squeaks accompanied each flap. I pretended to move with the flock, standing still, pretended the concrete fell away and down, and I, fixed in the world, flying.
Two seconds passed. When I opened my eyes, the wedge of sidewalk had emptied. No more rats with wings. No more me as I was before; no more pretend flight.
I don’t learn the hard way, three-act mistakes dripping in diamonds and denouement. My lessons are little, sudden, sharp, gone.
6 Comments
Yes, but I still see you as a person who has wings and flies in the sky, not a person who daintily hops along the ground.
That reality enforces mechanical augmentation upon us to take flight is neither here nor there.
Great insight. I'm always amazed to see how flocks of city pigeons fly intricately, as a single organism. And “little, sudden, sharp, gone” — reminds me of the end of a L. Cohen song: “And they're gone like smoke/And they're gone like this song.”
You are kind to say so. Most of my flying is, to borrow heavily from Douglas Adams, merely missing the ground.
I couldn't ask for a higher compliment, David. Thank you!
You are kind to say so. Most of my flying is, to borrow heavily from Douglas Adams, merely missing the ground.
I couldn't ask for a higher compliment, David. Thank you!