It sits perched on a windowsill, flapping its wings, remembering flight in a previous life.Wind, that rushing sound filling the air, thrilling the heart. The flapping is stunted, nervous. Each missed moment a reminder of past emotions, passions fizzled out, a parched aching beating inside a hallow ribcage. There was beauty once. The memory is clear, yet distant, like stale knowledge from forgotten books. An attic full of empty reminders, yellowed souvenirs from trips beyond recollection, etched with hidden scars. It sits with dried tears, waiting.
*Dead bird on the floor of the Santa Iglesia Catedral Basílica de la Encarnación in Malaga.
