By Alina M. Sidorova
What a simple life you must have. September sun smudging your feathers, a warm breeze threading through them. Sure, you are in a bargain with Darwin, but it seems a kinder situation than my rodent-wheel life. It’s the difference between my freedom to and your freedom from.
What are you doing on that lamppost? It wasn’t in your contract. Why do you not preen or track the warm larking of rodents in the soccer fields? Why do you ponder the skies? You’re making me feel unevolved. Go on, go away!
I’m supposed to be free, yet you’re the one who’s winged.
Sweet poetry in prose. Good on ya’.