Lining the Wire

Five...eight...eleven. I count the number of birds in my head. They line the thin wire above me, perched in perfect stillness. Do they talk to each other while they're up there? I wonder. Perhaps they hold secret meetings, conducted high above the listening ears of others. I doubt it. They don't seem to be paying too much attention to each other.

I study their tiny frames. So light they must be, to keep their balance up there. Do they ever fall? I suppose when you have wings to catch you it doesn't matter.

They look so somber, with their beaks pointed straight ahead, claws tightly clutched. Perhaps these wires are a common resting point. These feathered friends could have come from anywhere, yet they all come here to give their small lungs a break. It's like an airport for birds, I think.

Looking at them up there, all in a line, a thought strikes me. Where do they go from here? When they finally take the tiny leap from the wire where do they go? Do they stay in town or do they head for another town, another state? The potential they have. No baggage claim to slow them down or ticket prices to delay their trip. They come and they go. Any time of day, any day of the week.

To be a bird.

But would I embrace that freedom if it were suddenly granted to me? Or would I hesitate forever on the wire, stuck tight with the overwhelming possibility? Would I stay forever at the mid point, listening to the stories of others, never making my own? These birds, they must be terribly brave. With a life so short they don't linger long. A few minutes and they take off once more, in a direction all their own. They waste no time seeking out their journey.

Oh, to be as a bird.