A Little Spasm of Creative Writing

22 10 2007

I was looking at the birds flying the other day and I had a little brain wave. I don’t write random little fictions very often but I sat down and rattled this off in like ten minutes. It needs editing but you all deserve a post so I’ll hold off on the editing until a later date.

A Holiday for Birds

            Birds don’t get holidays very often, let me tell you. It may look fun but the constant search for food, the hurried flights every time a human comes around- which is getting to be more and more often- and the continual battle with the elements is bound to wear anyone down.
              It didn’t used to be like this. Time was when a decent, self-respecting woodpecker could bore holes in any tree he pleased without interference. Now they tell me that mostly when they try a human comes along and makes ‘em leave. Even little swallows like myself are finding it harder and harder. Sure there are breadcrumbs in the parks and bits of food at sidewalk cafés if you look ‘cute’ enough, but there isn’t much freedom anymore.

The humans probably think we don’t know any better. It’s them that’s foolin’ themselves, though. You see, we birds can remember a lot more than they think we can. We remember what they’ve forgotten.
We remember the Garden.
To most of ‘em it’s a fable; to a few a tragic loss but to us it is the ultimate catastrophe. We know what it was like. We used to build our nests out of lion’s manes and coyote fur that they gave us freely. On sunny days our little ones would play chase  with the kittens. When it rained we took shelter next to the pandas and under any convenient elephant.
The wind always blew in the garden so we didn’t have to tire our wings out. Even then birds could only fly a certain distance, but with wind came freedom which was unparalleled.  We soared for joy, diving and twisting and rejoicing in just being. We loved the wild rush of the breeze.
It was never so windy as to make the Two uncomfortable, though, not that they would have minded. They knew what a help it was to us. And back then their kind genuinely liked us. Them Two would never have thought up cages, nor seen our kind as food. We liked ‘em, and we mourned when the fiery sword was set against them. In their fall they brought us all into the wilderness. We lost our freedom just as surely as they lost their inheritance.
Since that day not one of our kind has felt the blessed wind of the Garden. Now we wear ourselves out just to survive. When that fiery sword was set against them, they turned their hand against us. Now it’s cages and disease and murder. We watch as their machines eat up the earth and their buildings rise to cover it. Impotent and bound to our small frames we are being slowly edged out. We shake our heads and go about the business of living, freedom and joy a dim memory.
We miss the Garden, tis true. But we miss more the fellowship with Their kind and the bright days of riding the winds through the garden.
So sometimes when the wind blows hard we jump onto its’ back and remember how it used to be before the wilderness and before the sword. Those are the holidays of birds.




2 responses

23 10 2007
Jennifer James

I love it!
It almost sounds like the tiny sparrow now lives in Brooklyn. Which is, after all, wear the trees grow.

31 10 2007
Russ Furgason

I first read this a week ago. I loved it and felt like I should comment but just wasn’t sure what to say. I’m not so eloquent with the written word as yourself. A few days later, your dad and I were enjoying our weekly Starbucks breakfast meeting and I found myself recalling how touched I was by your “little spasm of creative writing”. I’ve been listening to The Chronicles of Narnia audio books on my IPod when I’m driving and realized that your writing about the birds affected me much like listening to the CON. You have a gift Meghan and I hope you will write more and share it with the rest of us. Thank You and God Bless You.

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