“Wing Collapse”, shout the newspapers
this morning. When the wing of a bird
collapses, we all know,the universe quakes a bit.
A wing is so precious.
Why, it might be the most fragile,
the most powerful, the most enabling,
the most tired thing in the world!
If I was a dog and a shopkeeper adopted me now,
they would just have to give me a torn blanket
and periodic food,
Or i might be a non-person, sitting on the
dappled tree all day, swinging on a leaf as
the wind moves it. Or i could be a child.
For the minor trouble of screaming aplenty,
I could get a pizza, may be a balloon, and never
have to think about anything responsible at all.
But these fantasies are threatened. My ears are full
of post-mortems of the wing. Was it overburdened?
Did it soar too high? Was it too ambitious? Did someone
do anything to damage it? Deliberately? Off handedly?
Were they greedy, insensitive, short sighted or
I am still there too. Wherever else i go,
Its not possible to be anywhere else really.
All else is so white and
known and confident. The collapsed wing is so
dark, impossible and unknown. They have
tried to camouflage it in a bandage of green netting.
But it inescapably is, A huge vortex of nothingness
in the middle of the royal ball…