A Summer Fine Day

Softly he alights on the wide oak branch, balancing carefully.
He peers at the group of chickadees in front of him,
Hopping slowly over to his betters,
Hoping to find a touch of certainty.
Hogwarts spots him, spreads his wing,
Bounces on his spindly legs twice.
"Young one, so good to see a
Bundle of fluff not yet flying."
He stands awkwardly, scratches his chest with his beak.
He notices his plumage lacks the black-white contrast
Of those who are older, wiser, and
Inevitably wanting to teach him,
The not-yet-having-done-anything.
"I just want to fly", he says.
Looks he over the horizon, beyond clouds and wind,
At the great forest, caught in a heavy summer heat.
The green leaves stretch out in every direction,
A maze of interlocking and shifting perplexity.
The Others stand back and stare, smirk quietly,
Enjoying the moment of superiority, of haughty
Glances. Ended only by the guffaw of Hogwarts;
Epic man, his black head plumage almost gray,
Having fathered many chicks, found many nests,
Traveled to the winter resting pond--
Fought bravely the howling jet stream to lead his birds onward.
"You," barks Hogwarts, "Better stay on this branch."
"Its only a thin green strip of wood--but its safe.
"You hop off this ledge--and you'll fall through the floor
"Of this forest--of everything you can see--and never come
"Back again. Bid your cherished dreams, your tastiest maggots,
"Your splendid nest of bent twigs, your fondest thoughts of your mother--
"And even--fly!--hah, you will still probably die."
Young bird that he was, he stopped and stared, up and down Hogwarts.
Then he opened his wings as the Others watched, muttering,
Scared, realizing that it was not what they wanted, rather, to hold him
Still, not letting him flee, keep the alive under the foot of the dead,
The dead in the soul. One hop--and he was off on the thermals--soaring through
A joyful congregation of beeches, hobnobbing with their friends the maples,
Cheering him on--"Fly on! You weren't born to die".
As he turned and watched the Others quickly speed out of sight,
His old world, forever lost and vanishing, he realized that one idea
Could never be let go of: whoever made this; it was not for him.
It could not be owned by any living thing.