A somber curtsy to the black desert birds
Constantly rummaging for a tiny scrap
Skinny with tattered feathers-
Dried up from the sun and dirt
Mislead by the skies freedom,
An existence fated to struggle
My father's positive spin;
Yet there may come a day when burdened wings are uplifted.
For the eternal wind blows with a conscience stream, and will not remain silent forever.
Eli's mind;
There is no other because the word "I" doesn't exist.
So the world struggled with them turning scraps into banquets.
A sky which once mocked their aerial slavery- now can't contain their dreams.
Pondering infinity, staring down their beak like a telescope of truth
Dad's 2nd go;
Alas, these lofty thoughts were only a dream, for when the birds awoke their pain was real. But somehow they took comfort in the familiarness of their collective misery, for to follow their intuition, to remove the "eye" would mean flying blindly on faith. And the uncertainties of such a proposition scared them more then starving to death. So they fought each other over the morning trash scraps the way they had for as long as they could remember
Lydia's flair;
Their magic is hidden under desert ash,
Tomorrow will find the moment has passed.
Freedom of birds is measured in now,
Each moment passing without knowing how.
Tara's goodness;
I'm paralyzed by what I don't know
of these birds
just as I'm paralyzed by what I can't know
of death.
The picture is all I know
of these creatures who may or may
not still be.
Their moment is frozen for us
to view so that we may view
our lives more clearly.
I'm paralyzed by what I know
of these birds just as I'm paralyzed
by what I know of life.
Lisa's heart;
Phoenix without the fire.
Unbowed in the heat.
Feet planted firmly and determined heart lifted to the sun.
Crowing defiantly, triumphantly: "I AM!" "I AM!" "I AM!"
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