This morning the light seeps through the trees as if it had been spilled. The sun is distant and hazy and you watch as it slowly climbs. It’s in no rush and neither should you be. Your back is tight and it’s not until you pinch your shoulders together that you realize you’re a bird. A yellow one with purple flecks yarned around your eyes. The purple slips down your neck and spread across your trunk like an ink stain. It’s likely you’re capable of other colors, just as it’s likely you’re capable of being other than a bird. But this morning: yellow bird, purple flecks.

You do bird stuff because what else are you going to do? You fly, you eat, you chirp, and you poop before you take off for flight. You walk in drunken scurries, stuttering like a newborn bottle-fed on lightning. Your feet move only in the direction your head is aimed. Your feet are weird looking, like dried twigs warped in the rain. All this elegance supported by such goofy looking feet. 

Where will you fly to? A silly question. Where won’t you fly to? 

Hiding in the sage plant near the bird feeder is a gray cat. He thinks he’s clever but you avoid him easily. Sometimes you act as if you don’t see him and flutter his direction. When he lunges you’re already gone. Occasionally you forget he’s there. Remember, you’re a bird: your brain can only hold so much. That’s when things get interesting. Interesting can be good and it can be bad. Still, it’s better than not-interesting. 

Your bones are hollow. You can hang upside down and not get dizzy. Compared to other birds you’re fairly large, though you don’t weigh more than two ounces. Your wings make thwapping sounds when you beat them. The sound is muffled and bent, as if someone were driving past while hammering on cardboard. 

Not everything makes clear sense and there are moments when you wonder why you’re a bird. Why your wings make that noise. Why the cat eyes you hungrily. What to do with being isn’t always clear. 

Someone has dropped an ear of corn in the dirt beside the barbecue. The ear has been chewed slick but the ends are capped with uneaten kernels that pop like caviar when you bite them. Sweetness overflows and dribbles a golden slush down your royal neck. Sometimes it’s good to be a bird.