The red bird that wants so badly an answer to why it is flying over and pulling at bits of weeds and why it collects things and puts them together in the dumbest places, like atop a precarious ladder. And whether it is it for a reason, this dumbassery.
Why animals regard eachother like that, and so much is taken for granted. And why, being a bird, it is still sad, without even the proper biological material to be sad, because it can’t make tears, because its eyes just aren’t like that.
Without a word to you about being silly and hopping around. And needing something that can not be explained. Why the bird is just sitting there, being scared, inside the dark garage. And even though it is beautiful, and tender, and completely itself–it’s no good.
Why it does it’s work, botches it, drops her little eggs, and flys coup. Though it was not a coup, it is a house, because things are assimilated in it, organized, even poorly: the nest and the eggs, the boar skull that the bird broke. Coup in the sense that it is hot and dark, where we are trying to be kind to eachother in the dark.
The bird that goes numb with fright and appears to give up. Sits there in the hole in the ceiling, stamps your car with her little feet, but does not give any sign. Does not know what sign to make, or how to explain anything. Is jealous. Is cruel and quiet. Is inside itself with questions that can not be answered. Is wanting to be the bird, to act on that natural feeling that makes being a bird, even a dumb bird, okay.
Bird that knows two things that contradict. Bird that can not know anything but these two things that are yet to be one thing. Which is what the bird wants, everything aside, this one thing.