Wing in the Wind

Past rails of glinting steel, forlorn eyes had peered at the sky. Rays of tumbling pearls had slept over the emerald thicket of trees, a filmy zephyr drifting past the tittering leaves. Blazing stars had dusted the ink of the night, their light reaching far distances. Hazy clouds had descended, their vapor stroking the tips of feeble branches. Forest grounds had stirred as still breaths of wind had brushed past. Gentle thrums of fluttering wings had sunken the little heart hidden behind the white breast.

    Lids lowering, the young dove turned, its back facing the view it had so woefully gazed at a moment before. If only it hadn't been thrust into a beaten cage and been tethered to icy bars, it could have been just as lucky as other unfettered birds. Its passion for soaring about had been forced to plunge deep into the horrors of nothing after that thunderous and rash event.

    And, oh, how much this growing nestling had despised whoever had deprived it of its sole source of freedom, wishing nothing but misfortune to come their way.

    Yet, still, although the dove had been firmly chained to cruel stakes, a fervent determination had burned within, promising the bird it would see the glorious sights it had birthed to see.

    And so, the bird had wildly squirmed in the lines, its battered body jolting forward, desperately trying to snap the bounds.

    Folds of the late hours had passed, night exhales shifting to fierce gales. The plush, green marsh had begun to rumble and quiver, its bristly voice howling at the weather, swearing it would survive this violent battle like never before. It had been challenged by its own self to pull through the deprecating voices the climate bestowed.

    The little dove had no intention of interfering in this imminent war and had only yearned to spread its wings and break free, however, Mother Nature had had different ideas in mind.

    Silver shadows had slipped against metal, a blinding flash suddenly glaring at the wincing dove. Small body frantically writhing in cords, its backbones clashed against the sinister cage walls. The ragged ropes it had been constrained in had scraped its milky chest, briskly slitting streaks through its delicate skin. A spinning cry had instantly left its beak, a trickle of scarlet liquid beginning to stain the iron bottom. Winking drops had slithered down its shivering head, its disheveled fur now moistening with salty tears and blistering blood.

    Whimpers muffled by whirling winds and running rain, the dove had sobbed its sorrows away. Despite its maimed and drained body, it had persistently driven forward. Sights of pink clouds and aureate sunlight had been painted in its mind, and it hadn't been going to succumb to trapped pain simply because it had been aching.

    As bitter tears of the looming skies had brutally pelted the earth, the wind had roared and shrieked. Deafening whistles had vibrated above the battlegrounds, squalls convulsing the rusty aviary. Merciless blusters had suddenly crawled beneath the cage, harshly whisking it off the chipping trunk. Steel spears crashing against the dampened soil, the dove's tiny head had struck the walls.

    Seething cruor had dripped from its pearly crown, its fraught eyes watching. Vision going fuzzy, dusky flickers had mingled with wheeling voids.

    And with a bulbous raindrop, the white dove had blacked out.

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