Oh, oh, oh. This. This.
Our feral heart that wants to run. Our quiet heart that wants to go home. The way we are on a constant search for wings.
What are we? I can’t answer that question for everyone, but I, I reject human form, the same way that maybe the dog rejects the way it has been shaped by vain, proud hands, rejects being squashed into a small body with a stump nose and legs that hardly run, remembers the wolf.
Perhaps, there is a secret society of species dysmorphics through the world, wolves trapped in handbag-size bodies, tigers designed by human hands for beauty and not for breathing.
Perhaps, humanity is just the first victim of a curse, a curse that washed over the land and said, we will take birds and give them not-flight, we will take coyotes and give them not-running, we will squash them into strange naked shapes. And, in anger, they will turn on the rest of the world and make it as not-wild and not-free as they are, turning wolves into handbag dogs, clipping the wings of birds and shutting them in cages.
We have been abused, we have been broken, and so, we repeat that abuse on the helpless things around us.
But I say, no more. I will not continue the abuse done to me. I will let the birds fly, even if it makes my heart ache to watch them go where I can not.