A Cage Could Never

The Barn Owl is an alluring, solitary creature—that brilliant pale face as scintillating as the moon, poppy seed freckles, and abyssal eyes carrying an unblinking gaze. She is a graceful, silent huntress, while I am a cacophonous scavenger who is more comfortable hanging out with a murder than committing one. Often mistaken for my more introverted cousin, many see my presence as an omen of death. Meanwhile, because of her beauty, most who have had the good fortune to catch a glimpse of her do not even consider all the poor rodent babies she has orphaned. She and I may both be birds, but we are certainly an entirely different species.

This is not to say that I consider myself inherently inferior in any larger sense. Aside from not possessing the heart of a cold-blooded killer, I am a cogent communicator and clever conversationalist. Every time you approach The Owl, whether for the second time or the sixtieth, a part of you will doubt whether you have really met before, or if it was only in a dream. That mystical quality will always lure you back to her (if only to find out again that the last time was indeed a dream), but with me, you can trust that I remember your face, your name, and every minute detail of kindness and self-consciousness you ever revealed to me. Meeting for the first time, you will wonder whether we have known each other our whole lives.

Most importantly, I am a helper. A problem solver. "Where there's a will, there's a way; where there's a feather, there's no tether," I always say. What does it mean? To be frank, I am not quite sure, but others always seem to find it means what they need it to.

The Owl, however, is someone who never seems to need it to mean anything. I cannot imagine what it is like to be her—to never need to be comforted, reassured, to never put your faith in something intangible to make up for what has vanished from your life. Is it lonely, I wonder, or powerful? To know, already, that you are everything that you need. Wings made of clouds. Talons of steel.

Would I trade parts of who I am for those qualities? Maybe. It might help in the courage department. I am one of the reasons "fly" is synonymous with "flee" or "escape". A flustered means to an end. Others instinctively sense that I know how to fly because I need to; she knows how to fly because she wants to. It is a choice, and a noble one at that.

What I envy most about her, perhaps, is how effortlessly she captures the respect of others without the fear, whereas, upon first meeting me, most experience a tinge of fear without respect. Fear might not even be the proper term. Caution? Suspicion? Scrutiny? For instance, you do not know either of our names, but what would you guess? For her—Nova? Scarlett? Celeste? And for me—probably something like...Gary. Gary the crow. A common name for a common fellow.

I did meet her outside of dreams a few times, around dawn. She was cleaning up from dinner and I was scouting nearby for an opportune breakfast. I did not see her at first, so I was caught off guard when she spoke to me. Though there was nothing condescending in her tone, I was still embarrassed to be observed mid-scavenge by an apex predator.

I do not remember her words, just the experience of her presence. See, birds like me, we need a sizeable personality because we need to prove ourselves. We need to show that we can compensate you for the space and resources we take up. Birds like her are who you save the space and resources for. I am not saying she does not have a personality, or a good one at that, only that hers is allowed to exist without anything to prove.

There is a myth out there, I think, that all birds are free so long as they can fly. But that must not be so, or else, why would I be here, collapsed nearly a thousand kilometers from home? Don't get me wrong, I love who I am. I think I have a delightful personality, akin to sunflowers in full bloom and the scent of fresh morning dew. The problem was, like with my predisposition for frightful flight, I did not know whether I was who I wanted to be or only who I needed to be.

Amongst the avian community, we all know why the caged bird sings, but over the years, I have become less convinced that the cage is the real problem. The cage merely holds the spirit until it fractures itself, but it remains that the wounds within the cage were self-inflicted. A hunger that is not provided with outer means of satiation has no choice but to turn inwards. Cages do not kill; they merely trap you with The Fox.

But cages are no concern of mine. A cage could never hold a crow. Where there's a will, there's a way. We don't sing, we solve. What's important is to keep your distance from The Fox, for he remains a tricky fellow even when you are perched high above, beyond his reach. Sometimes we even jump in the cage to keep him out.

Recently, I have taken a step back and begun to see the gratings I put between me and the rest of you. I might venture a small ways away from my cage in the morning, but when I catch a glimpse of The Fox slinking nearby, I jump back in. It was a voluntary and pragmatic method that served me and my survival instincts well all these years.

But The Owl, oh The Owl. With every encounter with her, a little hatchling owlette within me grew. A crow I remained, but this little owlette was now ready to fly, and she cared not to account for any foxes or cages. Her wings demanded great gusts the way a voice demands ears or blood demands oxygen.

A cage could never hold a crow, but a crow could become a cage. My body became a mere vessel of this owlette, and I could either let The Fox in for the kill or lend her my wings to see where she would take me.

As is apparent, I chose the latter. I do not know how this is going to turn out. If I live, it just may be the greatest thing I have ever accomplished. I flew to fly as far as I could go, beyond survival and into desire. The risk of flying beyond survival is, of course, the fact that you may not survive, but if I learn for a day, or even an hour, what it is like to be as free as The Owl, to hold, for a second, the personal dignity she wakes up to every day...for that I have already decided to give everything.