to feel the fresh air 

under her feathers 

preened in precision,

it was invigorating.

her song had died out 

in all that expectation.

perfectly placed in stale air,

it had become monotony –

safe and dependable,


stagnant and predictable.

with the unsurety of the wind

now blowing in her face,

ruffling her plumes,

a haphazard appearance,

(such a tousling her mother would surely scold) 

but she could breathe again.

remembering how to carol 

her song sang with such beauty.

they all gathered to hear,

not only the notes of her tune,

but the flutter of her feathers 

in the air 

as she spread her wings to fly.


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