Saturday, December 1, 2012

Verne Bluebird

The days are getting short. There is a chill in the air that can only signal the approach of winter. Flocks of birds fly overhead in an urgent rush to find a warmer place to wait out the cold winter. This is how it has always been. The internal call is too much, and there is no sense in trying to resist.

Verne doesn't feel the call. Verne doesn't feel anything. The bite of the wind and the frantic flights above mean nothing. The events of this last summer were too much, and in an attempt to rid himself  of the pain he allowed himself to become lobotomized. The cold means nothing to Verne. The short grey days are but a glimmer of the gloom he currently feels.  He will be content to let winter ravage his small feathered body. The eternal draw of immediate comfort and warmth do not appeal to him.

Don't feel bad for poor Verne. While he knows he is destined for a time of suffering, he also knows that soon enough there will be the warmth of Spring.