CHRIS COE

THE DEAD BIRD

I am the dead bird. I am the little swallow at the Happy Prince's feet. I am Johnathan Livingston Seagull. The ghost of the albatross, just above the masthead. I am the dead bird. I am flight, realized, at terminal velocity; 5,000 red-wings down in Arkansas, turtle doves in England, family worldwide, turning back at the gates. Rushing the gates from the inside. I am freedom, its illusion stolen, the idea someone you love has passed, ill omens on the way to work, tires where wings should be. I am the dead bird. The Augury disturbed, I am.