The kestrel is tethered, unable to fly. She eyes the man who controls her trying to make up her mind if it's love or something else that holds her in check. He treats her well. He talks to her as if they speak the same language. She senses he may even be confiding secrets. Maybe he is, maybe he isn't; she only knows the sound of his voice can comfort her, and she senses his change of moods. He gives her everything, except what she wants most. Freedom to hunt or find a mate as nature intended. Freedom to soar above the world whenever she chooses, instead of at his whim, to ascend into the vast blue sky, to spiral and dive, only to surge up again and again. The kestrel digs her talons into the gloved hand, waiting for her chance to fly.
Elise Skidmore ©2020