The bird has been trapped in the cage for so long its eyes are dulled and it trembles and flutters whisper-soft against the bars. You have opened the door and coaxed it out, watching it puff its feathers and cock its head. It chirrups softly, pours out a well of stoppered song. It is slow to remember the language of flight, its wings stressed and buckled and finally spreading in a rainbow of plumage. This is what it lives for, this wild joy, soaring and jolted on the currents of the sky. This is freedom and pleasure and exhilaration, climbing recklessly towards the sun and plummeting in dizzying rushes, warbling a celebration.
You would take your bow and shoot it out of the sky, spiralling broken to the ground. You would snare it and wring its neck; you would tear it apart with your hands. You would trample it underfoot until the earth was rusty and muddied with blood. This is your sport and you play well.
Quietly I have held it nestled in the hollow of my hand, my fingers tapping the pulse at its throat. Its bones are dry twigs, finer than porcelain; its feathers are silk and its jet eye looks back at me as it spills diamond notes. I stroke its small head, its wings, and it grips me with fierce claws.
It has lost its song and its heart is still.
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