I didn’t need much for myself that morning: just a blanket that a friend had given to me to keep the morning’s warmth clinging to me like a well-baked potato. The blanket was a checkerboard of red and black, and often I would find myself tracing the paths between the squares with the precision of a cat stalking a sunbeam, wondering how long it might take a flea to travel across an entire square. Two epic days at most, I’d decided, only for the arrival at the coveted destination of another square. One must imagine the flea happy.
Coffee’s flavor hadn’t quite settled itself into my taste buds yet, resembling then more the runny muck from the puddles in my flower pots traveling down my tongue in thick waves. Instead, I opted for milk. And though that morning would’ve undoubtedly been better suited with a steaming cup of coffee, stirred with notes of a sugary caramel syrup, I assumed the tenacity of a mule strapped with ankle weights and committed myself unwaveringly to that icy grip of milk, appraising it as the elixir of resolve.
I then shifted my focus from the book in my lap, and turned an ear to the birds. One bird was seemingly masked with a contrived cheerfulness, as if it were concealing its true thoughtfulness beneath the guise of tinny, bright notes. Much akin to a long-neglected piano, languished untuned for decades, its keys subjected to the unceremonious assaults of a stained-cheeked toddler. Those little hands striking the keys as if swatting at invisible mosquitos threatening to extract the tune’s lifeblood. There was also its feathered companion of a deeper and more reserved melody— a tonal demeanor reminiscent of my sister during her years of diagnostic shyness. The way she would manage a mere ‘I’m good, thanks, how are you?’ after having repeatedly rehearsed it in tandem with my mother at the kitchen counter.
Coo Coo
Coo Coo
Coo Coo
Can you hear me?
Can you hear me?
Can you hear me?
Twee Twee
I can.
Coo Coo
Coo Coo
I’m bored.
Would you like to play a game?
Twee Twee
I don’t play games with you.
Coo Coo
Sure you do.
A momentary hush drowned their chirps, suggesting a dramatic interlude in which, I assume, the second bird casted upon the first bird a challenging gaze, perhaps accompanied by a raised brow, if birds had eyebrows. Do birds have eyebrows? Unfortunately, my breadth of expertise does not include, to any extent, ornithology.
Coo Coo
You’re just being chicken.
Soon, a third bird joined the conversation, its sound shrill like a theremin.
Da-Da
Da-Da
My best friend is a chicken,
I find that offensive.
Coo Coo
I’m sorry.
Twee Twee
And I’m not being—
The second bird continued in a further hushed tone. It was unthinkable to me that this bird could manage such softness once presumed unattainable, alas there was our birdie maestro, pushing the boundaries of sonic gentleness.
Twee
Chicken
Coo Coo
Coo Coo
Coo Coo
If you weren’t chicken—
I mean, scared,
You would play my game.
Twee Twee
I don’t like your games.
Coo Coo
Coo Coo
How would you know?
You’ve never played.
Twee Twee
Twee Twee
Twee Twee
Twee Twee
I see how you play
with the other birds.
It’s dangerous what you do.
I’m safer on my branch.
Coo Coo
Coo Coo
Coo Coo
Of course it’s dangerous.
We won’t live forever,
But we love to live.
Twee Twee
No, thank you.
The first bird then awaited the second bird to continue, the two falling into a silence like scuffling countries would fall into a stubborn-headed stalemate. The only sound I can now recall were the rustling of trees as the raindrops softly hit themselves upon their leaves, a gentle drumbeat like a heart. Bum, bum, bum, bum.
Twee
I’m scared.
Coo Coo
Coo Coo
Coo Coo
When we fly to the sun,
We feel its warmth,
And it feels like home.
Twee Twee
Twee Twee
Twee Twee
I don’t like the sun.
It’s not safe.
And the branch has always been my home.
Coo Coo
Coo Coo
That branch has thorns.
It’s not entirely safe either.
I can neither confirm nor deny if the branch had thorns for the same reason I am unable to describe the birds themselves. They were small, and I sat at a considerable distance. We can assume, by my speculation based on their quality of character, that the first bird bore a compact frame, its feathers quilted of colors not particularly indigenous to the Pacific Northwest. I envisioned its beak tiny and in a state of perpetual frenzy, fluttering open and closed as if fearing its stillness. By similar estimates, the second bird must have been of especially long neck and torso, its beak stretching towards the horizon so as to enable itself to reach out as far as possible without needing to quit its branch.
Twee Twee
But I know these thorns.
Coo Coo
And you know the sun.
Twee Twee
Not like this.
Coo Coo
What’s the difference?
Twee Twee
Twee
The branch is not the sun.
That’s all.
Coo Coo
What’s the difference?
Twee Twee
Twee Twee
The branch has never
Done anything wrong.
Coo Coo
Coo Coo
Good for the branch.
But what’s the difference?
Twee Twee
The difference is—
Silence then draped over their dialogue, however longer and denser than ever before. After some time, I began to entertain the depressing notion that the birds had abandoned their arboreal abodes by my home and already flown far off. Perhaps, I mused, the second bird had also taken wing, choosing any branch provided that it wasn’t near close to the sun.
But then a chirp, low and reserved, fluttered through the dampened air once again.
Twee Twee
Twee Twee
The difference is that the sun is big,
and hot, and far away.
Coo Coo
Coo Coo
You can go far too.
That’s why you have wings.
Twee Twee
I can’t go that far.
Coo Coo
Maybe not.
At this point, the first bird’s tone began to take on an air of discernible dismissal, as though it were experiencing an abrupt estrangement from the two’s tête à tête. An average bird would have been beguiled by this apparent apathy, but my astute avian diplomacy sensed the shallow ploy at play: back the wings to prompt the other party to push. After all, it is impossible for one to be declared a loser of an argument if they abstain from the argument altogether.
Twee Twee
Twee Twee
And I haven’t flown
in a while.
Coo Coo
I guess you haven’t.
Twee Twee
Twee Twee
And maybe the sun isn’t as amazing
As you say it is.
Coo Coo
Sure, it’s up to interpretation.
Unfortunately, a spontaneous burst of rain drummed against the panels of my roof, audaciously muffling out the next chirps. Though, I surmise they were of rather negligible consequence, given the apparent scant evolution of the conversation by the time their sounds were reasserted once more.
Twee Twee
Twee Twee
Twee Twee
Twee Twee
I believe you when you say
The sky is big,
But what shall I do
If it still can’t fit me?
Coo Coo
Coo Coo
Then we’ll find another sky
Even greater than this one.
Twee Twee
There’s no such sky.
Coo Coo
Coo Coo
I wouldn’t have told you that
If there was no such sky.
Twee Twee
Twee Twee
Well, I don’t need you
To take care of me.
Coo Coo
I still will.
Twee Twee
Twee Twee
I’m happy on the branch.
I don’t need you.
From the proceeding chirp emerged a tone of finality, implying almost a hint of a smile that would’ve shown teeth through lips like mischievous accomplices caught in the act.
Coo
No.
Then a gentle flitter of wings graced the air, louder than one would’ve expected our distance to suggest. I’d assumed that it was the sound of a bird shouldering its way through the thick foliage heavy with resistant and reluctant leaves.
Coo Coo
Why are you here now?
Twee Twee
Because I want to play.
Coo Coo
Name the game.
Twee Twee
Let’s fly to the sun.
Coo Coo
Then follow me.
Twee Twee
This is ridiculous work.
Coo Coo
Not to me it isn’t.
Twee Twee
Will you lead the way?
Coo Coo
No, fly by me.
In a similar fashion to before, another flutter of wings was heard, heralding the departure of two birds, or rather bird-like blurs, that burst through the vibrant autumnal hues of my maple tree. The incline of their flight was almost a perfect vertical line as they chased the sun.
Their departure invited speculation. Perhaps they reached the sun, feathers ablaze until naught but the echo of their voices lingered in the therebefore? Perhaps they descended upon a different, far thornier tree— now adorned with some somber wisdom. Yet, I tender a proposal that the sun remains unconquered by our birds to this day. I believe they persist, flying almost vertical towards its rays still, suffocating with possibility. Perhaps they are exploding with craving.
And I don’t believe that the second bird was coerced into flying to the sun, I believe that it was always their goal, and they were rather nudging the first bird to convince them off of the branch. If they had harbored any true reservation, they never would have made the first Twee.
Once their sounds had ceased, I rested my glass, now empty, and carefully slipped a torn edge of scrap paper between the pages of my book, not wanting to fold their edges into unsightly creases. And then I stood, carrying a weightiness on my shoulders.