when the flock moved

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.

About Halsted M. Bernard

Halsted, a/k/a cygnoir, does stuff with words. Her favourite things to do with words are keeping this diary, writing stories, and organising information. She lives in Edinburgh with her husband, two cats, a few gadgets, several fountain pens, and many books.

Posted on 8 Sep 2009 in Diary
  • http://www.wireheadarts.com/ wirehead

    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.

    • http://cygnoir.net cygnoir

      You are kind to say so. Most of my flying is, to borrow heavily from Douglas Adams, merely missing the ground.

  • http://twitter.com/davidlarsson David Larsson

    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.”

    • http://cygnoir.net cygnoir

      I couldn’t ask for a higher compliment, David. Thank you!