Of the flock, one or two are the boldest. Willing to take the initial risk. Willing to be messenger back to the flock or dead on the porch. With this one, another comes along. Someone to keep watch. If these two succeed, they fly back quick and let the flock know.
Then three or four or five return, emboldened by the risk the first one took. They as a group are bolder than even the first. Coming and eating and watching each others feathers for a suspect breeze.
When these three, four, five return — they will tell their success stories and later six, seven, eight will come. Bolder than both.
Each new success is an increase in numbers, in friends who’ve got your back. The first is the most risky, but without this — none of the others would raise wing and fly into prospective danger. Without the first, none would eat the hidden secret treats. And without a first, ever — all would live in fear.
I am willing to be that first sparrow, but I need a watcher and I need a flock to fly back to.
I am seeking, out on wind and wing alone, for these friends.
Time was coming and going. Cycles were beginning and ending. There had been joy, but then there was confusion. The years were passing. Had been passing. And things were the same, in some ways. But some things were different.
It was acceptable to say “It was hard to know”.
It was hard to know. Had been hard to know. Was going on, getting harder. To know.
I was given a retaliation. I was given chances. I was given a lifetime of love, and I was told not to make quick decisions. I wasn’t going to.
It was going to come to fruition. The trees were going to bloom. Things were going to change.
And still, we were given questions, no answers. Just passive lives with passive lines that led us where?
We were going to get there, wherever that was.
Dreaming about banging, thieves, and liars in the night. Waking to sounds that make me worry there’s murder, death and gore down below. Under my bed, copper boxes like chastity belts hide wrapped around tummies of monsters who rise from the ground.
Everything unpacked, disorderly in a big empty room. And I’m looking for tiny slips of paper that mean something bigger than just a ticket to where I’m headed next. Like I’ll lose my identity if I’ve lost them.
A hat, in sunlight, that was special and is gone.
A life, in moonlight, that was sacred and is gone. And as leaves fall dying, I lie wishing I could unravel loss like old sweaters and reweave my dreams into new brilliant patterns.
Winter will be both cold and hot on two opposite islands. One larger and one small. Volcanoes and earthquakes may shake me up. Another latitude may take away this lassitude and wake me up.
I want to keep knowing what my dreams are; how bad these nightmares are, how long the banging goes on. Not because I hope to find anything good, but only because I want to know what I’m so afraid of.
Thus far, it’s liars and thieves and people who cage metal monsters in false chastity.
What does it mean?
I’ll have to wait and see.
Tonight, I sleep and I dream again.