today a chickadee flew into the library window and was left wounded on the ground before me. Before he hit the window he looked free and wild, a little bird singing and flying against the true blueness of the sky. Unfortunately he hit the window, and he lost his song.
I watched as he lay on the ground. Stunned; hurt; depressed? A boy in the library wanted to kill it because he said that the bird was dying anyways so we might as well end his suffering. Before this horrible plan could be carried out however, the bird got back up and sat there for a while.
He sat wondering if he ought to fly again. Was it worth it? He looked up at me, his little black eyes blinking and he seemed to ask me if it was worth it. Is it? I think so. Because after ten or fifteen minutes I looked back at him and at that moment he said,
"dee dee dee dee" and then flew up, almost hitting the window again but not so hard and then he went up, up, up and back into the sky. He decided it was worth it to fly again. And I think it is worth it; at least I want to believe it is.
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1 comment:
I think we can choose to believe that it is worth it. And through making that choice, it becomes worth it. (I really hope there was some sort of metaphor behind your blog, otherwise my comment sounds ridiculous.)
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