Fly Away Home

This morning, er... afternoon... as I lazed my way down the street, looking for coffee and chatting with Dad, (and after I had the shit scared out of me by a barking dog) I happened upon a tiny yellow parakeet sitting peacefully on the sidewalk. It was clear that it was a domesticated bird because it was not afraid of me, and I kneeled down for a closer look, and to make nice with the animal-kind (as nature herself is scarce in these parts). I could see that something was amiss, the poor thing's beak was all askew and a little bit smooshed, and so I said "Dad, gotta call you back -- I just found this injured parakeet," and kind of leaned in to curl it up in my hands. At first it seemed like it was going to work but just at the last moment the bird flew up into the tree adjacent from where I was, in prayer-form on the sidewalk in front of my favorite house in all of Chicago. And then I just couldn't help but cry a little. Hurt animals are my own personal vision of hell -- I walked away, hoping for the best. I called Ian then, he was in the car driving to Boise with Harris clan -- and told the story, all wobbly-voiced. He did his best to assure me that it was a cross-bill and his beak was meant to be that way, and I warbled through all that made me sad about it, how the bird was lost, and far from home, and alone, probably was missed by his family.

Sometimes life can be so self-allegorical.