birds

Sitting, watching, twitching. Impatient with not a plan on the mind. It can't stand still for more than a second, it hops, and pecks, it flaps it's wings. It's gone. No. There it is again. This time perched on the tree. It falls to the ground, gracefully and unimaginable. Pecking and the ground, looking for something undesirable for us to think about. That worm, now in it's beak, is but a fraction of what we are. It is lifeless, although it is still crying for merciless freedom. And if the bird were to cut it in half, it was gain this freedom. Recreate its own form from the half. So is it less than we are? A human cannot live without half of its self, so why can that small, insignificant creature? It can, but it won't, not now. It is halfway digested, waiting to be regurgitated to the the mouths of those depending so desperately upon that bird.