It’s cruel to keep a bird from the sky. That’s its birthright: fresh air and treetops, the chatter of its flock.
If it ever seems my loneliness might override my reason, if I seem on the verge of caging some hapless macaw or cockatiel—give me a slap. I can’t have birds, anyway. Their dander obstructs my breathing. I suffer as much as they do.
No birds. No birds, no birds.
(Well, maybe the rescued sort, if they’d never fly again—if mine were the nicest prison, with the most fruit and toys….)
No birds, used or new.
I can’t fit birds, anyway. No space for a cage. And the beshrewing I’d get, should Mother see…the comfort of another heartbeat hardly seems worth it.
Absolutely no birds. Don’t let me forget it.