Why, just as my wings were healing, just as the bones knit together tightly enough to hold, as the muscles gained in strength, just as I felt the beat of the air beneath my feathers and the exhilirating power of the wind.... I had been healing for a long time, my wounds worsened by the cruelties of boys and men, but finally, I was able to fly again....and you cheered for me, so that even when my new wings were tired, when they ached, I kept trying. When I plummeted to the ground in exhaustion, I would sort my feathers out, preen my wings, and flap into the air again triumphantly.

I had been wary of you at first. I knew what men were all about, could still feel the cold balls of metal lodged deep in my flesh. I hid beneath branches, crept into safe spots, when you were near one day. But then I saw you at the stream, kind to the fishes. To the fish! I had never heard of a man who was gentle to fish before. This intrigued me more than my fear kept me back. But I saw that it was true; you were scolding boys who would have hurt those lovely, flowing fish. The fish were bleeding and battered, missing their fins. Some of them had chunks of flesh torn out of them. I knew how they felt. And I saw that you were different. Very different.

So I hopped along from tree to tree, watching you, wondering what sort of a man this was. I hid in the grass, curious, but still afraid. A child pointed me out to you, said that a bird was following you, and fear cramped tightly, convulsively, in my chest. I could hear the gunshots, feel the sticks thrashing me, already. But you turned and looked at me, not moving, and I heard your quiet voice and felt safe again. Sometimes as I hid in the brush when you walked by, you would stop and look right at me. And in time I gained the courage to venture a few feet out from the edge of the forest when you were near. And I began to see that you carried neither stick nor gun. But there were often other people near you, so I was careful. I knew what people were about, with their rocks and waving arms and hard shouts.

Meanwhile, my wings were growing strong again. They were still sore, they still ached, but finally, I could fly for a few feet. And when you came out I could hop-fly from fencepost to fencepost beside you, and you spoke gently to me. Yes, you were different. Boys came, threw pebbles to frighten me. You yelled at them, and I was surprised. Every day, I stretched those wings, beat the air with them, flew as far as I could. And in time, between flying and hopping, I could perch in the highest trees. But I always came down to see you when you were near, and you smiled. I flew harder, soared on the breath of the wind, smelled the fine sea air. Flying was good. But never as good as landing near you.

I heard their human voices saying that this was wrong, that a bird and a man should not be friends. That I should be wild, that you might hurt me, or that I might hurt you. Humans. Always meddling. Besides, I had never once perched on your shoulder or pulled on your shoelace, although those thoughts had occurred to me. And you had never put a hand out to capture and cage me. I knew that that was not like you, because you were different.

So why, my friend, when they shot me from the fencepost because I chirped near you, when I lay bleeding on the ground, my new wings broken in all the same places...why did you just turn and walk away, not even looking back?