The Yellow Bird

A yellow bird perched on the dying branch of a tree whose lack of leaves accentuated its color. Passers-by wondered what was this strange yellow bird, what was it doing here sitting on this branch day after day, week after week, sun beating down leaving its beak wide open and panting, wind challenging its tenuous hold on its branch, snow threatening to transform it into a tiny ice sculpture, and they began coming to observe it, but it seemed oblivious to the attention and never moved, and after awhile they began taking it for granted. They did not know that it was a very old bird, a former pet who one day sought an open window and freedom, but freedom was not what it had appeared to be to this previously coddled creature, and on its return home It found all the windows closed, so it now sought the solace of this branch as it grew older and its wings felt too heavy to keep its body in the air. And one day it fell off its branch and landed dead in a pile of brown, decaying leaves that rustled and settled over it, and the people who had viewed it with wonder, then come to hardly notice it, mourned the passing of their little yellow bird. Had it perceived their earlier feelings, would its life have been different? It’s too late to know.

Bluejay

Veteran of old My Poetry Forum before its hiatus. Happy to be back.

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