dirty paws, a saga — angel de costa [oneshots]

The forest of talking trees
They used to sing
about the birds and the bees

The creature's as fleeting as hope. The moment fingertips interlock around the tiny frame, its red wings spread and soar towards another fern leaf.

Back in the orphanage, when the hours were tedious and never-ending, a rebellion of us would sneak out from torn, barbed wire fences, cherubic faces already ruined with sin.

Along the path to candy-stores and food carts, where grooves intertwined and came altogether, we'd catch birds, either in jest or boredom or want. “I know how to do this.” A prayer, a rouse for confidence.

I don't want the other orphans jab their calloused fingers and make an object of ridicule out of me.

The bees had declared a war
The sky wasn't big enough for them all
The birds, they got help from below
From dirty paws and the creatures of snow

The forest of talking trees
They used to sing
about the birds and the bees

The bird refuses capture, leaping away before hands could be shrouded around it. I breathe out a sigh of disappointment, eyes on a concentrated outlook for another - and they discover a magnificent breed. It stares at me with brown circles flecked with marigold and bronze, tilting its head in a sporadic rhythm.

The grey and sapwood coat it wears reminds me of the brown-wreathed boy, with the soft eyes, who barged into the justice building and put his arms around me. It was strange, but comforting. I wonder how he's getting by. “Come here.” A hand reaches out for it. “Come here, Marley.”

 

The bees had declared a war
The sky wasn't big enough for them all
The birds, they got help from below
From dirty paws and the creatures of snow

The forest of talking trees
They used to sing
about the birds and the bees

After a futile attempt, I make a sharp intake of breath, and then hold it in, tucking the leaden air in between my bruised ribs and bones. If this bird is akin to Marley, it would be glacial in the head - but alert in its natural instincts. I need to wrap myself in ropes of silence, and so, I do.

Everything quiets down, save for the white noise and the small chirps and the melody of a wind goddess rushing past the leaves. Then, hands blur as they break off in movement, cupping themselves around the bird. I feel its feathers against my palms, rough with wood grains and coarse seeds.

“Ha! I got you, Marley.”

 

The bees had declared a war
The sky wasn't big enough for them all
The birds, they got help from below
From dirty paws and the creatures of snow

The forest of talking trees
They used to sing
about the birds and the bees

filler because i want a fourth bird and can't write.

The bees had declared a war
The sky wasn't big enough for them all
The birds, they got help from below
From dirty paws and the creatures of snow