Swift

Those who've read my previous blogpost might have already concluded that I can't exactly form bonds anymore. I'm sort of a shell trying to mimmick humanity. I tend to cling to moments and try to turn them into something more meaningful than they actually are. I overcompensate the lack of meaning in my life by infusing meaning in the small things, and sometimes I yearn for connection despite being incapable of it.

As strange as this sounds this is the closest I ever felt to being a father.

I have a strange fondness of birds. Out of all life their beauty is the most outward - their feathers, their songs, the pattern of flight itself. All life holds some type of beauty, because a body adapted for survival is in itself beautiful. Wings, feathers - objects of flight. They are both tools and a testament to their will to be here.

I met this wonderful little swift. She was being held down and pecked by a magpie more than twice her size, keeping her head down on the ground with its foot while tearing her feathers. 

I've never seen a swift before so I didn't know that they can't walk - they crawl - their body is so adapted for flight that they've discarded walking. Their feet are very short and "designed" to hold on to vertical objects like trees or cliffs. I took her home because never seeing a bird crawl on the ground before, I really thought her legs were injured.

I fed her and caught on that there wasn't anything wrong with her (besides being ruffled and scared to death by a magpie) so I took her outside and tried to let her go. She wouldn't leave my palm. She was most likely afraid of flying only to be brought down again. Every time I'd push her to fly she'd dig her claws deeper in my hand. This wasn't as much a rescue but an attempt to inspire a scared little bird to fly again.

I kept her for another day and I never expected a wild bird to become attached to me so quickly. When I brought her in it was inside a shoebox but she quickly grew accustomed to sit on my hand, first she was wary but after a while she would freely groom herself inside my hand - a huge sign of trust. And now when I fed her she'd chirp, she was communicating. It was amazing that such a creature understood my intentions and was not afraid despite her petite frailty. I could feel her courage growing in each of her movements - more definite, more commitment.

And it was finally time to let her go. And fly she did.

(here she is)