If Only I Could Fly

A cool morning breeze ruffled the leaves on the maple tree next to the porch. I took a sip of coffee and leaned back into the soft cushion of a faded lawn chair, faded from too many seasons on the front porch. I took a deep breath, inhaling the last remnants of summer, and closed my eyes to better hear the familiar sounds of morning.

The neighbor’s door opened, and then shut. Mr. Wonderful, so named because of a constant smirk and better than thou attitude, climbed into his crew cab. The engine came alive and he reversed into the alley. Willie barked his most vicious bark and chased the mean green machine along the back fence, continuing to bark until the truck turned the corner onto Main Street.

Across the street, The Singer, named due to his penchant for belting out hymns after church on Sunday morning, threw his lunch box into the passenger side seat of his truck, walked around to the driver’s side, and climbed in. His truck needed a new muffler, but Willie didn’t bark at The Singer. Odd how dogs choose who gets a bark and who doesn’t.

A mourning dove landed on the porch railing, saw he wasn’t alone, and then flew away. I watched him as he stopped for a quick peck in the grass next to the road, and then soar high above the roofs to land in the pine tree across the street. He answered the mournful cry of another dove before taking off for parts unknown. I envied his ability to fly high over the tree tops.

I took another sip of coffee and contemplated my life as a bird. There wouldn’t be a time clock to punch, no mundane chores, only the world to explore. I would sit on the wires, fly from treetop to treetop, and probably flirt with that cute little Blue Jay over by the pond. I would live outside, enjoy the sunshine and fresh air, and maybe find myself a worm or two over in Mrs. Larkin’s garden. I couldn’t imagine eating a worm, so decided I would sample her tomatoes instead.

I took another sip of my favorite beverage, and wondered if birds liked their coffee black or with cream and sugar. Willie joined me on the porch, flopped down on the hard, tile floor, and then hopped back up. He whined as he watched Mrs. Hatfield’s cat stalking an unsuspecting sparrow. The cat pounced, Willie barked, and the bird flew away. It was safe, this time.

As I took another sip of coffee, I glanced at my watch. Now it was my turn to hop up. In doing so, I spilled coffee down the front of my new, pink robe. I brushed at the spot, and then leaned down to pat Willie on the head, “I guess birds have difficult days, too.” I scratched his ears and continued my contemplation, “I wonder if birds wish they were human.” Willie merely wagged his tail. I gave him one last pat, shrugged, and winked, “Well, better fly or I’ll be late for work.”