The bird fell.
It fell beautifully.
Speckled wings, petite beak, black eyes. Spreading those feathers that were the length of my pinky, hobbling up with those stick legs to the edge of the nest. His noire pupils glinted softly in the summer’s light. He released his baby talons from the straw and dried grass, extended those delicate bones made for gliding, and left.
As I watched, popsicle dripping down my hand in dyed red rivulets, the bird who was supposed to lift off and soar, instead crashed. There was no wind. The hot air felt stale. The oxygen left my mouth.
It twirled as it fell, making a diamond of its wings, swept through the nitrogen compound as it failed to defy gravity. Slow pirouet. Soft battu. No allegro. Feathered tutu deflated as the ballerina’s performance came to an end.
Legs outstretched in contrasted angles.
Refracted light made orange hues in the atmosphere.
Kissed the ground.
Touched the morning’s dew.
The bird ran out of time.
And it was over.
The fall ended with a soft crunch, similar to crushing leaves.
My summer had begun with a conclusion that left me awake for nights, recalling those dark eyes…