A Scrappy Little Nest

Flightless, the smallest such bird, he’s hopping about madly now, dexterous little feet grab what they can - he lost his beak decades ago to a merciless marauder drone – here, some tiny, thorny little twigs, there, a footful of leaves nearly blown by among better leaves flown by. The wind is relentless, he’s never known it more violent, but he hasn’t known it any calmer either. It’s already blown tons of wisdom whistling past and around him, that airborne car nearly hit him, the airborne fridge was even closer, but he’s lucky to be small enough to be narrowly missed and able to find little crevasses to hide in when he needs a rest. The smallest flightless bird, he might take involuntary flight in the clutches of absurd winds, but somehow he stays on the ground. The frayed old edge of a dog-blanket is next across his path, blown from the prison out south, and he’s got it ! He grabbed it ! Well done, flightless little rascal. Everything he’s gathered will be the scrappiest little nest ever known to man or bird, he’ll clumsily patch it all together in the smallest tree (he, of all birds, needs a small tree), small as his greatest preconceptions, strangely anchored by the deepest root known to brainwashed man or tree. The wind, so crafty, is drunk with power, it might blow that mountain against the side of a bigger mountain, they’ll both be scarred for a good few minutes at least. But that ragged little nest will be built and he’ll simply never leave it, he’ll make it scrappier by the day. 19th December 2018