I was the one that needed to listen
I’d first read her words sitting on the floor between the stacks at our community library. I wanted to know what all the hoopla was about-this lady poet from the inauguration.
I read her words that floated beating like bird wings. I casually flipped through her words, not fully understanding her metaphorical prose.
A decade later, I flipped through again, this time standing at a local bookshop, this time understanding there was something 𝐼 was missing. There was a deeper story and ɪᴛ ʜᴀᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʙɪʀᴅs.
That’s when I started asking every way I knew how-ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙, 𝑎𝑚 𝐼 𝑑𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑟 𝑠𝑎𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑔𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑛𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑠, 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝐼 ᴅᴏ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡’𝑠 𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑠, 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑚𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑑𝑦 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝐼 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 so ᴏᴛʜᴇʀs ᴡɪʟʟ ʜᴇᴀʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ sᴏɴɢ.
And just like that, I knew the truth that the poet was speaking.
I knew why I needed to hear the bird’s song and listen closely...𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐝.
I couldn’t fool myself that I knew anything about how the bird felt.
𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧.
