To Fly Again
The voice on the phone sounds scared, sniffling as if it has been crying, making it hard to understand. It’s 6:00 in the morning, on a Sunday! But the tiny voice asks if I can come by the house.
I walk down the street and find my neighbor, Emilia, and her daughter, Lori, hunched over their rosebushes, looking at something. Emilia reaches me first and explains that since 3:00 a.m. they have heard this sound, this bird, and they don’t know if it is dying, or what it needs. They have watched over it most of the night.
I watch Lori gently stroke the bird. The bird is about six inches long, with feathers of beautiful, amazing colors. I …
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