#nothiding

She sleeps high in the tree,

frail and slight,

finely built,

a small bird.

Wrapped around a branch tightly,

although she can fly,

a little.

Awkward flight.

Always arms outstretched to grasp the nearest sturdy perch.

She never learned to fly.

She just woke up one day,

in the trees,

flying.

…

To fly was surprising.

And tiring.

She can’t rely on it.

She must rely on the trees,

and shun the ground until she knows why.

To land feet back on the earth may be through falling.

Not-flying.

…

Her arms wave, a little wildly,

not in flight (yet here she is in the air) but in search, something to grab.

Her fingers widely spread,

palms sweating.

Always the clutch, the thump into the wood.

A gasp, relief.

A deep breath, relax.

I don’t fly, she thinks.

I tree.

…

Tree to tree

Water (as rare and precious as sleep)

Food (she won’t eat a discarded mouse again)

Shelter

Safety

Looking, looking,

(but she doesn’t know if she wants to see,

just to live is so hard right now,

without the burden of knowing)

perhaps her body,

her outer self,

broken, cold, sleeping,

on the ground,

sending her little shadow self up into the trees.

A desperate safety for sure.

And lonely.

To fly is eldritch and rare,

for a girl.

9/11/19