Hope Is a Thing With Feathers

Bird outside my computer room window, I want to perch you on my hand so I can feel your weightlessness.

Are you as light as air?  Would your feathers feel soft against my hand? Or are your feathers rough, since your tiny toughness withstands harsh, icy winters while my large, heavy frame would perish besides you.

In general, you must avoid humans that could easily harm you intentionally or not.  But make an exception for me, just this once.  I’d be extraordinarily careful.  Then afterwards, fly off again and never trust us again.

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