i feel rather like a bird of prey who has lost the gift of flight.
i see myself as a vegetarian snowy owl.
snowy, not because i am pure, but because i am pale. my freckles resemble the markings of the bird.
there are no red-headed birds of prey.
i flap in circles. mud covers my wings. sometimes i am ensnared, my movement restricted further so i cannot even lift my wings away from my body. i lie still.
on occasion, my wings become clean and heal themselves. the twine or plastic or ribbon erodes in places, and i can stretch my wings. i fly when chemically persuaded. i fly, and you fly with me.