He is a silent delicate shape stationed at the upper left corner of my desk. He is the lifeless bird that dreams of clouds and gushing winds, yet it is useless. He is a lonely paper bird that guards my desk and observes the handles of the grandfather clock as it clicks eternally forward.
I wonder if he thinks he is unloved and to make sure he does not swallow that horrible belief I whisper him a name because anything with a name has a purpose and a reason to earn that name. I decided on Johnny, a reminder of that character in a cartoon who carried his only friend--a wooden plank with a marked smile and eyes.
Johnny must stare at the jays and the Robbins wandering outside the window, envying their soft feathers and round cautious eyes. But he is remarkably beautiful because sharp folds and patterns form his body made of neon orange paper and it seems his silence drowns out any winged friend outside the window. Johnny is not alive, but attest he will never die. At least I can carry him in my pocket to the land beyond my lawn and just maybe, If I feel generous, I'll rest his frail body in my palms, stretch out at arm's length to clouds and gushing wind, and for a slim moment in his endless lifetime let him feel like he can actually fly.
