I heard it. They don’t really twitter, they twinkle, little glittering sounds like tiny silver bells. I couldn’t see him – his tiny form, a ruckle of brown feathers, must have hidden somewhere among the sterility of chrome and steel vents and grills above my head. He could flutter there, perch on his bony little feet, to stare down, head askew, eyes like bright black berries. Below him, the flocks of migrating humanity strode by, important and focussed, looking at screens, phones tucked between shoulder and cheek, bags following neatly behind on obedient little wheels or strapped heavy to their backs. They queued, they waited, patiently or not, drank tea, opened laptops, but always with an ear for the metallic voice that would tell them was their turn to take to the air.
But I heard him. His sweet little voice spoke of the clarity of mountain air, the freshness of a treetop, the bloom of snowdrops by the burn, the promise of springtime amid winter frost. He can fly without a cardboard ticket, passport in a battered blue cover. No security check for him, no need to chaotically divest himself of belts, shoes, bags. No body search for him, no waiting, waiting, waiting to spread rigid metal wings and drag himself to the sky. He’ll be off, swerving and gliding, rising up in a series of loose curves, like waves on an empty beach. He knows how to fly. I can only wait for my noisy imitation.
But I’m glad I listened to him. For a few seconds he took me with him.
No comments:
Post a Comment