The White Cockatoo

Far below, a solitary, white cockatoo is flying along the valley floor. It seems lost, separated from its flock. It turns this way and that as if following some scrambled map printed on its brain. It is so small and insignificant set against the immensity of these mountains. I can just make out the ragged notes of its cry carried through the deep hush walled along its way. I hear alarm and fear woven into its constant call. Now, it is getting further away. I try to hold the sound's thin tapering thread by cupping my ear, but now there is only the whisperings of nearby trees. Its stark, white, flapping form is growing smaller and fainter as it tacks into the darkening reaches of the afternoon. A tiny, blurred speck hesitates, flickers briefly, then is gone. I stand for a while as shadows thicken and fill with cold, my eyes transfixed on the point of its going, letting it go to fly with almost all of my life.