Flight of the Imagination
2/16/06
I awoke the other day sad at the ready realization that a recent flight of the imagination had landed, and now lies grounded like an eagle whose talons have tred too deeply in a patch of tar. Its wings flap furiously now and again, when she's not being generously fed by her mate who stands apart, content in his heaviness. A fig tree sways near by in teh breeze, bearing fruit in varying stages of ripeness, some ready ot pluck, many already rotting in teh sun, others just budding in maturity, like babes in a green leafy womb. The eagle has her basic needs met now and occaisionally lifts herself of her adhesive trap, but her avian soaring strength is sapped daily by her earthbound tethers. Her tree beckons; the sky , azure and clear, calls and the eagle remembers her soaring days, when all the world was possible and figs were hers for the plucking.
Her mate watches the struggle, puzzled by her malcontent: doesn't he give her his all? Isn't it enough that he protects the nest, feeds her, guards their home? His eyes soften now and then as hers flicker in frustration. No matter the carion he brings, the water he lovingly spoons into her beak from his, he knows it's not what she craves. For in his tender, uni-linear gaze he cannot see her beloved fig tree and when she looks over his shoulder in yearning, he knows not what she seeks.
She tries to ignore those fan shaped green leaves, the gnarly brown bark and black leathery sacs of succulent seeded fruit beckoning beyond her loved one's sad eyes. And at times the tree fades from view in teh sand storms created by her flapping wings and she wonders if it had ever been tehre. But then the dust settles slowly, like a whisper, powdering the feathers of their wings. ANd she can see her golden dream again.
ONce she begged her mate to rescue her by stepping onto the tar and pulling her out. But he was too fearful of being trapped himself so threw her a few branches instead. She looked at them and realized they were not strong enough to hold her weight. So she had another fit of winged exasperation, this one longer & feircer than any other. ANd, by surprise, she found she had lifted a talon almost out of the gluey mass entrapping her. Her mate dozed as she made the discovery and her heart lightened a bit. She drew her wings under her & rleased them in a new surge of confidence. She could, would get out by her own will. Memories of juices dripping out of a pierced fig, cool winds across her brow, claws firmly hooked int othe highest branches of her beloved tree as her world view opened up again; all these fueled her ardor.
And one talon rose. ANd soon teh other until only a thin string o ftar connected her to the earth like an umbilical rubber band. WIth a huge gulp of air and a magnificent caw, she rose into th3e air as her mate opened an eye to witness ehr airy ascent. Straight past him she flew and glided to her arbor. One perfectly ready fig awaited her and this she grabbed in her eager beak. Savoring the redolent scnet she breathed it in as she rolled the long awaited manna on her tongue and then swallowed. Filled with the succor she needed, she took off from the tree and aimed high, higher than her last horizon.
And below, her mate watched the flight of his dear one, called after her not noticing the stray fruit that had landed at his feet. Lowerin ghis head, perplexed at what he'd just witnessed, he now saw the fig and kicked at it in annoyance. The dust of her departure now covered the tar patch and she was long out of his line of sight. NOt knowing what to do he lay down and looked at the oft orb nearby and pecked at it, dis-consolately. The sweet meat was new to him and he found it not unpleasant.
High above and beyond, our freshly released eagle was on her way. She knew not where and cared not; was ready for the next windstorm, a sharp shooting hunter, a bear lying in wait. The route was hers to navigate. She knew by her inner compass wehre to find the next fig tree and how to survive between feedings. She thought lovingly but not longingly of her mate and knew he would find his own current of air to hang on . THey might cross paths again. They might not. But she turned her head proudly to the past and left it behind. With a flick, the last tarred feather fell away and she veered ahead to greet the sky.
I awoke the other day sad at the ready realization that a recent flight of the imagination had landed, and now lies grounded like an eagle whose talons have tred too deeply in a patch of tar. Its wings flap furiously now and again, when she's not being generously fed by her mate who stands apart, content in his heaviness. A fig tree sways near by in teh breeze, bearing fruit in varying stages of ripeness, some ready ot pluck, many already rotting in teh sun, others just budding in maturity, like babes in a green leafy womb. The eagle has her basic needs met now and occaisionally lifts herself of her adhesive trap, but her avian soaring strength is sapped daily by her earthbound tethers. Her tree beckons; the sky , azure and clear, calls and the eagle remembers her soaring days, when all the world was possible and figs were hers for the plucking.
Her mate watches the struggle, puzzled by her malcontent: doesn't he give her his all? Isn't it enough that he protects the nest, feeds her, guards their home? His eyes soften now and then as hers flicker in frustration. No matter the carion he brings, the water he lovingly spoons into her beak from his, he knows it's not what she craves. For in his tender, uni-linear gaze he cannot see her beloved fig tree and when she looks over his shoulder in yearning, he knows not what she seeks.
She tries to ignore those fan shaped green leaves, the gnarly brown bark and black leathery sacs of succulent seeded fruit beckoning beyond her loved one's sad eyes. And at times the tree fades from view in teh sand storms created by her flapping wings and she wonders if it had ever been tehre. But then the dust settles slowly, like a whisper, powdering the feathers of their wings. ANd she can see her golden dream again.
ONce she begged her mate to rescue her by stepping onto the tar and pulling her out. But he was too fearful of being trapped himself so threw her a few branches instead. She looked at them and realized they were not strong enough to hold her weight. So she had another fit of winged exasperation, this one longer & feircer than any other. ANd, by surprise, she found she had lifted a talon almost out of the gluey mass entrapping her. Her mate dozed as she made the discovery and her heart lightened a bit. She drew her wings under her & rleased them in a new surge of confidence. She could, would get out by her own will. Memories of juices dripping out of a pierced fig, cool winds across her brow, claws firmly hooked int othe highest branches of her beloved tree as her world view opened up again; all these fueled her ardor.
And one talon rose. ANd soon teh other until only a thin string o ftar connected her to the earth like an umbilical rubber band. WIth a huge gulp of air and a magnificent caw, she rose into th3e air as her mate opened an eye to witness ehr airy ascent. Straight past him she flew and glided to her arbor. One perfectly ready fig awaited her and this she grabbed in her eager beak. Savoring the redolent scnet she breathed it in as she rolled the long awaited manna on her tongue and then swallowed. Filled with the succor she needed, she took off from the tree and aimed high, higher than her last horizon.
And below, her mate watched the flight of his dear one, called after her not noticing the stray fruit that had landed at his feet. Lowerin ghis head, perplexed at what he'd just witnessed, he now saw the fig and kicked at it in annoyance. The dust of her departure now covered the tar patch and she was long out of his line of sight. NOt knowing what to do he lay down and looked at the oft orb nearby and pecked at it, dis-consolately. The sweet meat was new to him and he found it not unpleasant.
High above and beyond, our freshly released eagle was on her way. She knew not where and cared not; was ready for the next windstorm, a sharp shooting hunter, a bear lying in wait. The route was hers to navigate. She knew by her inner compass wehre to find the next fig tree and how to survive between feedings. She thought lovingly but not longingly of her mate and knew he would find his own current of air to hang on . THey might cross paths again. They might not. But she turned her head proudly to the past and left it behind. With a flick, the last tarred feather fell away and she veered ahead to greet the sky.
posted by Barbery at 7:35 PM
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