Lost Dream

On the buckeye branch overhead there's a goldfinch, showering in the cool rain. How disgusting, the way he boasts.

A bleed in me falls like pellets over his black cap. He must think he's hiding.  But - no! - No!  He's not fully camouflaged.

And I'm not fooled. An echo of war follows. It hovers, encases and bargains. I watch him struggle and think of the lost soldier I held.

I see fate unfold.

I see the jeeps exploding, the punctured cavities, red brush and blood-stained sands behind the craters of his face.

He is some remnant of battle. Gear packs over his shoulders speak to me. Loud as missiles, they scream - 'Silence!'.

But, where does the quiet lead - if not - back again? Back again, that's where it takes me as the goldfinch whistles.

A song to mislead.

Below his onyx there are obvious feathers - like smooth lemon - bitter sweet. He finds a way to sing. Tries to forget old scars.

There's no blame to place. Like the crumbled shells of his offspring which turned back to soil. There must be a reason. For everything - a reason.
Right?

There is life. Beneath the metal, there is breath. Reasoning is a lost kiss, or a wasted night. A realization that birds sometimes fall from the air and pass away.

I see this goldfinch has no real holes. No missing limbs. No broken parts. He's as intact as trees on earth.

He's a graceful plane. His suffrage is for worms and housing. The misty dawn; his true  enemy now. There's life to keep him focused though.

He is dizzy but tries.

He's not forced to catch the bullets tagging his sunny jacket. He's a solo pilot - admirable - lucky. Willing to fly.

Embracing the elements he survives. A flashback for a widow's morning; he twitters through this haze, this funnel of emptiness.

He pretends nothing sinister weighs on him. Because he - he has plumage waiting in the nest. Something warm to welcome.

I sit watching him shake off burdens like clockwork; rain, wind, cold weather and a crooked wing. Yet, he appreciates the storm.

And I think, maybe if I wear a similar hat and bathe in floods, I can control the flow of pain. Train myself, perhaps,  to appreciate some types of horrendous weather.

Brave goldfinch, battling the seasons. But is it a blessing to him - Right?  I'm here in total awe of such a character.

He is spectacular while I will never flee this dusty tomb. Because my tender quill is resting in an unmarked plot, overseas.

There is nothing of a nest, welcoming, or warm.  No blessing to hold. I stopped trying to count long ago.  Who can calculate nothing?

Dreams are lost and hope is dead.

There's the dust from a crushed seed. There's the silent war behind this door. There are nightmares and pictures of a weed covered grave.