do you see that bird? the songbird. the one perched on top of that willow oak. right there.
the one behind the brick house? with the ivy?
yes.
yes, i see it. it appears as if it’s watching us.
it watches something else; it does not believe it is watching us.
so what does it watch?
look. it watches the sky turn from crimson to yellow. It watches the sun rise over the mountain. from the comfort of its new nest in the valley.
new?
it used to live in a birdcage, hanging from the thin branch of a pine tree. in the marsh between the land and the sea.
the sea is far away. how did it end up here?
not too long ago, i unlocked its cage. it was tearing out its feathers in frustration. it flew here on its own volition.
that is a long way for a tiny bird.
yes. the cage would have fallen into the marsh otherwise. its hollow bones would have been no match to the weight of the mud.
it seems good that you freed it then.
yes. interestingly, though, it flies back to its cage sometimes.
it flies back to the place it was trapped?
it even sits in the cage. the door swings open on its rusty hinges.
does it just sit there?
sometimes it sings. sometimes it cries. it always stares out towards the ocean from through the bars. in a way, it almost appears as if it misses it. as if it loves it.
does it really love the cage, or is it just familiar?
hard to say. it is just a bird, after all. yet, the first time it returned, it was low tide. a storm brewed on the horizon. no frog, cricket, or bird dared make a noise. it wept in the unusual silence. cried out to anyone who would listen.
you heard it?
yes, and i could have sworn that i heard love in its pitiful chirps. i feel for this bird. it might never understand why it feels this way.
what a fate–being condemned to love the place that hurt it, without full understanding of why.
i wanted to tell it why. i wanted to tell it that not everywhere is going to feel like home all the time. i wanted to tell it that it can have multiple homes. that as it watches the sun take position overhead, and appreciates the morning light and feels the crisp mountain breeze, that its home is currently here, but that does not mean it cannot seek refuge at the ocean. that it may soar above the mountains, but that does not mean it cannot continue to return to the coast until the pine tree and cage are reclaimed by the sea.
the bird will forever be, in some ways, between the land and the sea.
yes. i suppose everything in this world is in some way forever lodged between the land and the sea.
read Lindsey's first piece with Iris, "a requiem to my hometown"
