There’s a warm light that’s just a little too far out of reach.
Wings touching the tips where the light frays, against the cold of steel known as home.
Amongst clipped feathers and clipped notes, they huddle for warmth. Cheeks, chests and throats tightly against each other.
It’s soft, and warm, they said to each other, but that died down little by little, in that cramped cage they have come to know as their home.
Once in a while the caged birds sing of a time when they flew up the tops of trees freely, their notes a reminder of what they had. What was taken from them, slowly, surely.
The softness of the sunlight sometimes tickles at their mouths— and a voice somewhere tells them to live because there is more to see.
The footsteps grew closer, soft but achingly slow. I wonder if I had my eyesight, what would I face? That is, I asked myself until I heard the faint “hello” of a child.
The chill of the wind told me it was night, and that begged me to wonder why a child would be in the forest at this time, surrounded by the scent and sounds of leaves and raindrops.
From voices that the wind carried over, I knew that people were already warned to stay clear, especially on nights like this where the shadows seem they’re ready to swallow you.
Of course, but there was something off about the child in the way their footsteps sounded. It seemed as if they lightly dragged the soles of their feet, hitting the roots once in a while.