The small boy plays fast with his cumbersome bird. They trudge feather deep through amber gravel (though I forget whether the bird was flying or on tallon). Cumbersome Bird, with a heavy heart, scoops stones from their trail and begrudgingly grinds them with her tattered beak. Beside, Small Boy sews pockets for his Cumbersome Bird with a careful finger and tight knit thread. She adorns her feathers with the emerald squares and spits the pulpy rubble into the openings.
Cumbersome Bird weighs heavy after several hours. Her heart lies sodden with bits of stone and soggy saliva. It makes no difference to her whether they push on or stifle their journey, but Small Boy perseveres. He wants no pauses. No stops. Though small, it is he who controls.
Cumbersome Bird dwarfs his figure significantly. She is larger than all existence. She tastes the woes of mankind and eats their struggle. Their congested path is in her mouth, her stomach, her bowels. And yet, she has no commandl. Small Boy flags the path with no regard for weighty Cumbersome Bird. And though I forget so dutifully, I still remember that the boy thought it was all in her best interest. How, when he offers no assistance? His arms are lightweight in their own miniscule skin and bone. Tiny Small Boy owns no experience. His path had been clear from the beginning. Pockets had been made bountifully and given as if they were truly a gift.
Cumbersome Bird is now pressing on a narrow path. There seems no where left to go - nothing left to consume. The pair stand still; their feet press deep into the mud. Small Boy knows nothing of this this new way of walking. His feet sink deeper within the waterlogged earth as he glares at idle Cumbersome Bird. She is little disturbed by this occurance. She starts for only a second and then perks her beak with a righteous peck. Small Boy is in her mouth. She has been tought to taste all life and Small Boy is no exception. His struggle is her delight. His flavor is like no other.
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