Arrow, her usual place, moved quickly her head, this way and that, ruffled her feathers, spread her wings, sang, watched. Aware of four young children watching her. Pride in being herself, joy in singing, of seeing children, close, and smiling in wonderment and pointing at her. Sitting on sun baked earth and listless grass, talking quietly squinting eyes in Arrow’s direction.
A hand reaches out to Arrow, some grass, a little seed in Ruth’s outstretched palm, a curious smile of wanting to communicate with their new neighbour. Ruth’s eyes, aglow, moves, slowly, towards Arrow’s perch.
She flutters, looks about, sees nobody else, wings forward, pecks at the seed, flies back. Feels. A taming, a desire, a movement inside of her pulsating breast, triumphantly chirps. Children smile and then giggle and laugh: dirty clothes and shoeless forgot hunger sharing with Arrow.
Weeks go by, routine, after flying the forest, over the town’s rooftops, trains filling with people and baby wails and mother’s tears settles, each day, its oak perch.
James and Paul, Ruth and Maria, each day too. Food and joy, Arrow flies to Ruth, perches on her hand, pecks seeds, Maria strokes Arrow’s head with her fingers, touches gently her feathers. Flies to Paul, settles on James’ outstretched arm. Know each other.