Wounded Bird

A swallow can fly miles, from treetop to ocean cliff
The wind's undertow buoyantly gliding her
To a resting place of warm possibility.

She is free, lifted higher by duty and family
Not a thought outside of weather and wind,
Acceptance and choice safely within her span.

But then, jolted in flight,
her heart pumped deep
And she is transformed,

The unknown and unfamiliar
In that very moment,
A broken wing reclaiming

Something lost and ancient
Spiraling deep and desperate
Into the habitat of hidden.

Some species heal their wings
In solitude, licking and lying
In a nest of thin twigs

Healing from within
Until they can fly again,
To and from home.

But other species do not heal
And they tuck that wing
Underneath themselves,

Landlocked and less,
The natural order
Injured inside and out.

That species will push on
Practicing, praying, pretending
That wings are but a crutch

Meanwhile hoping that reverse gravity
May rocket them up and open them wide,
Heedfully whole to fly again.

Have a good weekend, everyone.