Blackbird

There was a bird, sitting outside on the maple tree's lowest branch the morning things changed. It was a small blackbird, so dark it was almost blue in the light from the rising sun. It sang, but it sang to greet the dawn alone. No other birds answered the solitary chirps, and eventually, the little blackbird went silent.

She sat on the branches of the old maple tree and stared at the sky, as though looking for answers.

Little Anna Maria watched her from her bedroom window. Anna Maria watched the little blackbird, the way the blackbird watched the sky.

"Anna?"

Anna Maria did not move.

"Anna, what are you watching?" Her mother knelt beside the wheelchair.

Anna Maria closed her eyes. "The bird," she said.

Anna's mother sighed after a moment. "Still nothing," she said to Anna's father, who was standing in the doorway.

"They said it could take some time," Anna's father said.

Anna's mother stood. "It's already been years."

"She'll speak again," Anna's father said.

Anna Maria watched the blackbird who watched the sky. The silent blackbird sang again, but when still no other birds answered, she flew away.

Anna Maria wished she could do the same.

Chaos Theory.

Chaos is our birth into the real world. A step in the wrong direction for the right reasons. An empty soda bottle overstuffed with air. A room, drenched with soap bubbles, glittering and bouncing around because they refuse to pop. The air is clear, and it's past midnight. Past time when sleep should have come to visit. I'll pay for this tomorrow. Or later today. Tomorrow has already arrived, despite how timeless the night seems.

Failed experiment.

These are smoke signals sent from way, way up above. A source of faith, a hint of trust, a wellspring of forgotten love. Or was it enduring? I've gone mad procuring the final element to cement this world in place. Too much in haste passes us by. Begone days and take this melancholy haze of misting with you. It was just wishing anyway on any well we happened to pass. The grass grows taller in another's yard where another farmer is in charge. Maybe their cattle have less lard than our own. But time has shown that we have grown out of small and thoughtless children into world weary earth searing shambles. If rambles upwards, onwards, outwards, on... Don't stop me with a tear-filled yawn. At least try to cry so we both know - just you and I - how much of a failure this experiment really was.