Escape

A bird struggled to get out, bumping onto the glass window and flying back and forth in its search for escape. I looked at it with pity and frustration as I read on the couch: Mary Oliver (Upstream) of all authors, who was also writing about owls. Pity because that's how one feels towards trapped creatures; frustration because I could not grab the bird to lead it out of the house. I tried most things. I turned off the lights in the living room, so the bird could focus on the light outdoors. I tried opening the windows further, so it would have more room to escape. I tried doing nothing at all. But the bird (I cannot tell you exactly what kind it is, except that it is bigger than a maya and smaller than a church dove) kept on flying and grasping. I marveled at its athleticism. At one point, the bird landed on the chandelier above the dining table. After 15 minutes, the bird flew nearer the ground, past the open sliding window, and joined its tribe in ecstatic freedom, basking in the fresh, cool morning in Marbel, for it had rained a long time last night. What adventure stories would it tell its friends?