Birds of feather

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Birds of Feather
flock together

A crow surrounded by peacocks – a deep abyss of darkness coated with the varnish of jealously flits amongst the iridescent eyes of gold, blue, green unblinking and staring.

He crows. They crow along with him. A stray feather plucked off an unsuspecting wing, another surrendered by reverence for the scratchy crows – so simple yet apparently filled with meaning and the secret of life. Rubies, emeralds, gold dust and diamond sparkles on the sharp, black beak and the circlet of holiness on his head.

He pecks the ground. They pretend to find fat, juicy worms, slurp in delight as he closes his eyes in a state of supreme satisfaction. More feathers, more unblinking eyes perch on his short stubby tail.

He flies away one day and they watch him. The long, silken tokens of mental servility hang off his dark tail as he flaps his wings, far above them. They come off as he traverses the miles. Diamonds and dust fall off the slick texture of his wings and the painted adornments remain just on the surface – underneath, still the dark abyss and still the sheen of envy.

A single feather falls in their midst as he takes off. They blink at it, cock their heads and peck it. It gleams and glitters – the trinket of folly and insecurity, glazed by beauty.

Their eyes are heavenward, waiting for the next one like the one who left, to deliver them from their impression of self imposed doom.

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