The rope is old,
tightly wound, pinned to the ground,
caked with salt, splintering,
stinging,
chafing and gouging and cutting,
reddening the palms that fight against it.

The seabird calms.
Slowly,
surely,
it settles,
secure in my grasp.
We are not so different, he and I.

He sinks down
into the ruffled coat
of his feathers,
and I splint that poor broken wing—
a piece of light driftwood—
the sea can heal, I suppose.

We sit by the fire,
the kingfisher and I,
and as he preens
nestled in the woven blanket.
He comes back to life,
and the fire seems to burn warmer.

He follows me
around the house at times—
hopping
table to shelf,
singing
his happy song.

Soon enough,
his hops turn to jumps,
which turn to flutters—
a glimpse of freedom—
flapping wings, splint discarded,
a piece of driftwood lone on the floor.

As I cradle him
to the window,
shutters open wide,
crisp sea air blowing in,
he chirps, a promise
to visit again someday.

We are not so different, he and I.
Except,
he can fly—and so say goodbye,
disappearing
free
in that endless blue sky.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Josie Jones is a Kent State student studying Early Childhood Education and English. She has a passion for the arts as well as for the natural world. She enjoys writing poetry that relates not only to nature but to deep emotions and feelings. She enjoys working with clay and making jewelry in her free time, as well as dragging friends on hikes and picnics by the river.

Contents

The Kingfisher

ABOUT THE AUTHOR