A leap of faith. A burst from trees.
A single feather spans a heartbeat.
Comes the waters. Comes the sky.
Neither matters — viridian flies.
Like a character from a story, latching on
For dear life; yearning for anywhere to
Return to when the ground fills with knives.
.
.
.
…and maybe that's one way to describe it after taking off into the air: catching thermals with either wing and following where they'll lead, drawing circles above a field and bristling in the wind. Until the sight and that below begin to bleed to the horizon, then there's a change in direction and a thrust to set it off.
Copper fanning from behind as the swerves lean to right. Shoulders bending with a swoop, and then straightening into a line. Bits of flutter clinging onto the speckled, dark feathers. Browns turning darker while the whites ripe to red. For the sunset's fading faster when it collides with the horizon, and dusk is upon them — both the earth and the flyer. But neither fades into the shadows as they leap towards the fire.
It's still visible enough to see and that's plenty for the journey. As a single beat from the wingspan shakes a boom through the clouds. They wisp around like hatchlings and trail behind in a row — like a skirt, like a robe, like something needed but let go. When rushing comes the laughter of the ocean and the seafoam.
Both stirring in the cauldrons of this eastern, grassy coast. A froth of bubbles saunter up and with a talon, they are gone. For cutting the waves while it passes is the silhouette of a hawk, gliding lower towards the water — nearly pushing past the line. Coming close, but veering off; leaping forth and taking off. Until circling above a cliff and this patch of moving pasture, the hawk comes again — challenge in its posture.
About as pointed as an arrow, it plummets to the water. Not a feather nor a talon comes to stop it from danger. But only the rudder of its pride and the needle of its beak, parted slightly in a smile and daring with what it seeks, breaks it free from the trance that had it short from free-falling. At the last second, it veers straight and there's laughter — it cascades.
It's a trill above the thunder, above the splatter of the ocean, coming to riddle it with bullets made of salt and that of water. But none could ever touch it, not with the wind at its side. Beckoned as it spirals and these wings catch the tide, they're commanding the waves below it — much like a hurricane when it arrives. And this power and this control, you could make out the years it had to fly. Just to harness what it could do with every moment of this flight. So that the momentum wouldn't break it, so it wouldn't —
— it caught a ride, along the waves danced about it and spraying upwards when it flies. But hardly a droplet comes to touch it because there's nothing here to weigh it down. Not while it's weaving like a serpent across this beautiful nightgown. Where the blues are turning green and are turning darker for all to see, smatterings of a ripple reaching out from the sea. Soon lapping like a finger and trailing down its pointed feet, caressing this as it is and embracing every part of it. And in return, talons skim along the surface of the water.
As a heartful cry and its whisper pierce the veil surrounding it. And while soft in punctuation, immediate once you hear it. Like tearing, done cleanly as you wrestle a piece of paper, before it ripples out into nothing, and so you tear the paper again. That's the sound you come to hear when the hawk cries again.
As it spirals from the sea and catches a draft near the coast. And then it clings to the rock face of an old, earthly column. Clutching tightly at the grooves while it hangs there for a while. High above the spray shooting upwards to have it cave, to have it drown in the belly of this boiling blue cauldron. And at that, a pair of eyes turn to yellow in the shadows for the sun is nearly gone — it's a silhouette to another.
Talons press into the earth. Then they fall like any other. Before the hawk spirals outwards and then, it begins to glide. A single stroke above the ocean bounds it straight towards the sky.
Another thrust to keep it stable while it battles with the tides. Swooping downwards into the sea, then pulling upwards with all it needs. Each time, dunking its every talon and releasing all it feels. Licks of salt burn it sharply down the scabbing of its foot, where a scar never healed from a battle that nearly tore it. But this pain, it's a reminder that every moment since its passing, the world has gotten to a better place.
Because there was a fire burning brightly and it refused to be tamed. All the feathers on its body could be clipped at this moment, but that doesn't take away the flight still within it. Or the taste or the semblance that right now, this is living. And nothing could steal this from the hawk, without a finger being bitten.
For this is where it belongs — between the outskirts of the earth. Where nothing could swallow or ground it down with an anklet of what it should be; because here and in the air, this is where it's meant to be. Where it knows itself as itself and for a moment, could feel ordinary. Although there was nothing remotely common about it being here, near the sea — where the terrain is as fickle as the ground beneath its feet.
But maybe in hindsight, that doesn't matter. This is the shaping of its own path. Where all that glitters and all the squalor is woven by its hands: nothing is predetermined; it's unassisted in the air. With where it goes and how it dies and every hour between then and there, that's the story it wants to write and it starts, beginning here. With this adventure of a lifetime, as it discovers all that it is; with its eyes towards the sky after years looking at earth — after years as a chicken when at any moment, it could've flown.
But barely sitting on the horizon, it hears a whistle calling out to it — breaking through its every thought with that of home and that of Tom, with that of care and tender arms, with that of dinner and that of warmth, with that of earth and return. Until it's inching and turning away from where it points, gazing down towards the land and there behind it comes a man.
Bearing tightly around his arm is a perch for it to sink on, and it's that perch and nothing more that starts to draw it from the air — from the water, from the wind, from its feathers and its wings. Because as much as it likes it here and with how it feels to be free, there's something domestic and familiar soon tumbling from its beak. There's an awareness coming forth, like all the frothing from the sea, saying that there's nothing to be afraid of or confused with how it feels.
That the wilderness ingrained will always be here when it needs it, and that it's time to come back and be with who — with who adores it. Because the man down below it is smiling, up towards it. Squinting through the fringes and the curls of his hair, wildly bouncing as he ventures towards the edge of this cliff. Trudging with nothing more than his gauntlet and with what he wears, and there's a fragile white branch peeking over from his ear while his robes are like feathers, ruffling which-way with the wind.
Another whistle calls the hawk and with every second, it's growing larger. Until it's ten, it's nine, it's eight, it's seven, it's six, it's five — it's three men away from him and its eyes are on his gauntlet. Mesmerized by the bruises and the breaks along the leather, blossoming like flowers in the breath of this evening. Telling of an old, lovingly worn and beloved earthly perch, where nothing else could compare to it as a descent comes about it.
The man flutters out a churr when he offers up his arm, raising it high above his shoulders so that the hawk could latch on. And perhaps, it wouldn't slap him like the dozens of other times — but then it does so, irregardless. There's a whack of feathers to his head. Not from the wing or any joint, but from the tail when it stumbles. When it whips and then, it smacks him. The hawk turns to show its good side. There's a shriek from the man and there's laughter from the bird, both flapping and startled with every moment from each other.
Then there's a nibble at his hand when his partner comes to touch him, an apology if he'll accept it when the hawk comes to look at him. And there's something eerily human with how it fixes him with a stare, eyes shining brightly despite the darkness surrounding them, and then it buckles beneath the man when he saunters down its back.
Legs collapsing, wings are folding, head is lowered towards the ground while a softness, a fondness, something gentle winds it down. A pad of fingers comes to preen it before they spiral to scratch its neck. And if a coo or an equivalent could be heard from its lips, if its wings widened farther while it melted at his hand, if its eyes were a little hooded and were clouded with affection, or if its beak parted slightly before it wiped it along his skin — as if nuzzling while it did so, a little playful with his knuckle — this man, known as Tom, pretended he didn't notice.
Because at the moment, he was upset — ignore the smiles on his face, crinkling near his eyes and growing wider at his lips. He admonishes his little bird with a thumb along its beak, allowing it to nip him back when he parts this to feel it grin. And at this, it's raising its tufted beady head — regarding him strangely with its stare and squawking at his fingers. Almost pouting, but it's difficult to discern that from a bird. Except when it nips a little harder and starts to dig at your arm, the copper rudder of its tail threatens to swish at any moment.
"Harry — "
A squawk and a ruffle of a few feathers.
" — will you be a dear?" Tom whispers, folding it gently with a finger. He could shift the bird if he wanted to, but it's better if Harry does it. Because partially, it's considerate. But mostly, he won't be crushed by a man on his arm, squatting lowly to his hips. Not that Tom knows this from experience, but he's twitching when Harry moves. Harry waddles along his arm, shuffling from either foot. He side-steps along the gauntlet before he flutters onto the ground.
And about halfway into the air and halfway from the ground, a mass of feathers turn to clothes and crouching is a man. Head tucked below his shoulders, all his balance upon a knee; arms bent at his elbows for seconds earlier, they were wings. It takes a moment for him to follow and for all his thoughts to come crashing. Until gradually as he stands, as he meets Tom with a glance, his mind is put together and he reaches out for his glasses — about ready to slip them on before his partner does it for him.
'It's good to have you back,' says the knuckle when it pushes at his frames, and then it lingers a little longer to caress him as he is. "Thirty minutes," Tom says. He heard the question before Harry said it. And then he tilts a bit closer with a thumb beneath his chin, drawing it up so that Harry could spot the stars within his eyes. "It's ready in thirty minutes. C'mon, let's go home."
"We're walking?" Harry squeezes right beside him and on the shoulder, mainly to tease him as they go but for balance when he needs it.
"Of course not. We're flying." Tom swings both of their arms as they're skidding down the cliffside and to the fields all around it. "But barely off the ground." As if to demonstrate what he said, he nearly trips over gravel. And it takes everything out of Harry to not cackle when he holds him, yanking him back from sudden death and to the comfort of his arms.
Every trill, every squeak, every squawk trails above them as they're heading back to a cottage, synonymous with home.