Nests of wool

Inside of a thick, leathery jacket, was a dense warm wooly liner. In the middle of the liner was one small pocket. And inside that pocket was a tiny little feathery bird. He liked it there in his improvised nest, where he had been placed by a large rough hand. It was warm and dark, and he was sleepy.
He was a brown little bird with dappled feathers and his feet tucked up under his round belly. His dark eye was blinking between half-open and fully closed. His peewee head, covered with closely packed sleek feathers was tilted just a little to one side. His body was surrounded by the thick wool that was more comfortable to him than any home he had ever made or found in the dark, rainy world outside. He was a happy bird now.
But was he free?

1 comment:

Karen said...

This reminds me of a quote from a book called "A Sentimental Journey" by Lawrence Sterne:

I was interrupted with a voice which I took to be of a child which complained, “It could not get out.” I looked up and down the passage and saw it was a starling hung in a little cage. “I can’t get out. I can’t get out,” said the starling. “God help thee,” said I. “But I’ll let thee out, cost what it will.” It was double twisted with wire, and there was no getting it open without pulling the cage to pieces – I took both hands to it. The bird flew to the place where I was attempting his deliverance, and thrusting his head through the trellis, pressed his breast against it as if impatient. “I fear, poor creature,” said I “I cannot set thee at liberty.” “No!” said the starling. “I can’t get out. I can’t get out,” said the starling.