A Bird in the Hand

The minutes are ticking away, and the clock shows me that I’m running out of time.  I am so proud of my Slicing streak (even if I’m not doing as well as I’d like on the commenting side), but I’m in danger of losing it now.

My gaze flutters around my desk, looking for something — anything — to write about.  Then I spot it: the small, wooden bird that I purchased for five bucks on a Facebook yard sale group.

I pick it up; it’s light, like the chickadees that land in my hand for black oil sunflower seeds up at the park.  It’s pine, I think, and I can see subtle marks from the knife that whittled it, and the gradations of shading in the grain.

I’m not sure what made me send the message (“Is this still available?”), but I needed to bring it home.  To hold its tiny, grained body in my hand, as the one who had created it surely did.

I wonder at the pointed beak, and marvel that it didn’t accidentally fall prey to the knife.  A tiny miracle of care.

This post was created as part of Two Writing Teachers’ March Slice of Life Challenge.

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