The bird refuses to commit to being a bird. Its beak is a thought held too long, thin, precise, slightly trembling, pointing at a decision the air won’t make. Around it, the sky keeps dropping small, sugar-bright holes: concentric pauses that open and close like polite mouths. They don’t look at me, exactly. They practice looking, perfectly.
Color behaves strangely here. It doesn’t coat things; it interrogates them. A blush appears where the question lingers, then slides down the neck as if the body were a page that could be erased by heat. The crest wires hum as though they’re receiving instructions no one remembers writing. I feel them skim my scalp, counting.
If I stand still long enough, the rings settle on my shoulders, light as coins, and I learn that stillness is not rest but a test of how long one can hold a shape without proof. The bird passes first. It tilts, signs the air with a quiet line of breath, and becomes the outline of a passage. I follow, not because I’m allowed, but because the circles keep narrowing until walking forward is the only way to stay whole.
