PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

     He was pink and plump like a human baby. Mother was out getting food for him. She usually got a common earthworm, occasionally a delicious mealworm. Thouse were Ferdinand's favorites, but not as healthy. She flew so gracefully, like an eagle almost. Ferdinand would dream of the legendary eagles. They were only seen once or twice a year. They were almost like fathers to him, the fathers he never knew. The wind shook the old oak angrily.

     He shifted his seat in their meager yet sturdy nest, and let out a cry of painful hunger. He was only a baby nightingale, yearning to fly as professionally as his mother. His sister, Andreas, had flown yeasterday, and was never seen since. He was very impatient with himself. It seemed his midn was drawn beyond what his physical self would allow. He saw himself as lesser, almost as if he was but something other than a bird. It was as if he were two identities, converged, like water spread upon a film of oil. His mother said he was scheduled to fly last week, that was three months ago.

     The wind was harsh, and the trees shook with much unease. His blood boiled in his belly for this was hte strongest wind he'd felt run through his thin, developing shrub of feathers. He chirped meekly once again.

     Where was mother?(10 circles...)

     The wind was furious, as if punishing him. His nest tipped back and forth steadily, more intensely with every sway. The nest soon gave in, and with once more cry his tiny home fell. He felt the familiar 10 circles he'd seen at birth, coil round him, trap him. He felt the sheer skin of existence peel about his back. He kenw he would die. He had not imagined this would without him until now. His thoughts raced, scattered like flies flee a bright light bulb. And suddenly, all that was, was not.

     He woke up to a soft, moist bed of moss, tender like a plump morsal. Had he died? His head throbbed, forcefully.  He chirped noisily...10 circles...He sat there helplessly, trying to reason out a way up the tree.

     Where was mother?!

     Through these thoughts, his mind drifted down the brook to an even deeper thought. Was he meant to climb back up the tree? Or was that terrible episode meant to tell him something. He thought and thought, until he came across a very interesting ponder. Was it true? was it real? Had that storm really meant him to walk? Was the wind so unwanting, as to not allow him to fly within it? Did the wind choose who flew and who did not?

     It was a very irrational and whimsical thought, but maybe it was the blueprint of something real. Rationality manifested within irrationality, as are all opposites, for the one thing that makes red the color red, is that there are other coloros to distinguish difference. Difference expresses characteristics in others. For example, people of stupidity are only stupid when compared to smarter poeple...