I said, ‘Oh, that I had the wings of a dove! I would fly away and be at rest. I would flee far away and stay in the wilderness; I would hurry to my place of shelter, far from the tempest and the storm.'” Psalm 55:6-8
“But you are not a dove.” The reproachful echo resounds, echoing in my skull.
And yet, so often, I cling to my perceived agency, gaze firmly upon the skies.
I fixate in formulaic verbosity; I validate my foibles and fears.
Daydreams of nostalgic yesterday oft overtake present joys.
Phantom pains from missing wings skeletally ricochet.
Now I pluck at twigs, yearning to create something new, to find contentment here.
Fragile frame. Twinkling song. Sharp, observant eyes.
The nightingale welcomes me into her nest, and I humbly accept.
“What’s your story?”
An inquisitive tilt of the head, expectant.
The words are slow, manifesting like molasses.
They are elusive, shifting in shadows I cannot grasp.
Yet the silence is somehow entirely right, and I need not rush to fill it.
I sip my tea, breathe in, and begin.
The pause just before birdsong greets the dawn.