||[Mar. 10th, 2011|09:22 pm]
I was driving to abaeline when I saw it in the back of a pick up truck.|
It shone so bright I had to pull down the visor to keep my eye on the rode.
But It held my eye and kept it and wouldn't let go and in little to no time at all I found my self in the parking lot of a pik'n'pak idling next to the red chevy pick up waiting for that young lady to go in to the checker.
She was blonde and tiny and wouldn't caused me no trouble, but I hadn't never done nothing like this before so I waited until she was right gone, and popped out of my rover, sidled up to her little pickemup and lifted it out of the back.
It cried, soft like, like something between a baby and a kitten with a little bit of cock thrown in, an i tucked it under my shirt as I walked back to the cab of my truck.
I could feel it's beak hot against the skin of my chest, through my shirt, and it's feet flexed to the sound of the song on the radio, scratching at my waistline, digging into the fabric of my jeans.
Damn thing was sick, anyone could see that. It was barely hot at all.
Hell, I could touch it.
I took it out colbert road towards the old lumber mill, and pulled off into the culvert near the jackson place.
No one around for miles. No hunters, no collectors, no tv people or scientists.
That girl woulda sold the damned thing and then what?
No bird, no season, all the crops die.
I mean shit, yeah theres likely a whole slew of them up in the mountains, but still it just aint right to cage it up like that.
Not for money.
I laid it out on a stump and it looked up at me.
It was crying, making that soft noise, it's tears burnin off the side of it's beak.
I'd never seen a bird cry before.
It freaked me out.
I grabbed a can of gas from the car and held the thing down as I soaked it with the can.
Poor thing couldn't understand, didnt like the smell, probably stung it's little eyes too.
I took the matchbook i keep in my pocket for emergenices, from the Jack Shack on Petaluma, struck one and lit the damned thing on fire.
It went up like an old book, it's feathers peeling back and lifting off it';s charred body, carried by the heat into the wind.
I had doubt then frined, I'll admit it.
For a moment I was unsure, and I lost it.
I grabbed my big gulp fromt he car and tried to put the damn thing out.
Anything to make it stop crying.
But I was too late, thankfully too late.
It's body collapsed into cider and ash, picked up in the afternoon wind, made a mess of the truck and my hair. But it was done, and when the wind blew it all away, that little blue egg was all that was left behind.
And I'll hold on to it fellah, until it gets too hot to hold, and then I'll bury in some leaves our in the woods where no one will find it, and wait for it to hatch.