noxpennatus

My book flaps its wings eagerly in the wind, like a young bird trying to fly, trying to break free of the ground. Like her. Once I asked her how she could spot every bird in the trees (all I could see was a flurry of the trees' feathers). Don't look for birds, she told me. Look for the shapes that aren't leaves. Well, now I'm between the trees, alone. She's just a small bird in a big forest, a not-leaf that I can't find. But if I could find her -- She'd look at me with her dark, quick eyes, take a tentative step, then spring from the ground she's hated, the wind from her wings stirring all the sleeping leaves.