There is a bird that flies in my imagination. In my mind, she flits between personalities, sometimes fierce, sometimes tired, always symbolic.
I like to think that in her younger days she was like a swallow. A creature of the summer sky, she would swoop through the crystal air, taking her chance to dance, just because she could. She would cover vast distances easily; nothing would ruffle her sleek plumage. Any danger or shadowy sense of doom would be outstripped by her speed and agility.
But, when I think about that bird, I cannot see her younger self. The swiftness of the swallow exists purely as a moment in an imagination intent upon exploring a metaphor. Far more powerful, more strongly imprinted on my mind’s eye is the bird of prey. Not showy; camouflaged. Easy to miss if you didn’t know she was there.
This bird sits (she does not…
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