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Shadow Self

Its the same scene every day.

The winter birds arrive first in peaceful silence, a stark contrast to the

chattering family of finches that follow. Then the blue jay flies in, an

obnoxious fellow who crashes down heavily from the sky with no

regard to others. The mourning dove couple comes together, but they

always seem to be in a foul mood. The male pecks his mate every time

she wanders too far. Once, he digs too deep and draws blood.

They are nothing like the lovely pair of cardinals, the last ones at the

feeder every evening. The male boasts brilliant crimson plumage to

which my rust-colored tail pales in comparison. He plucks the tastiest

seeds from the ground and daintily, lovingly, feeds them to his mate.

When dusk has passed, they flit away into the darkness, fleeting

flashes of scarlet and bronze.

I want to believe that I am not so different from those little birds. Two

wings. Feathers. But I know that is not true. My needle-sharp talons

tighten around the branch I use as my perch. I run my curved beak,

designed to tear flesh, through the soft feathers of my breast.


A winter wind blows, laced with snow flurries. It chills me to the bone.

However, I feel a coldness inside me as well, seeping into every vein,

fiercer than the sting of starvation.

I want to be with the others. I want to ask them their names, to share

in their lighthearted conversations. Even if I had to eat that dusty,

bland-tasting seed for the rest of my days, I would do it if it meant I no

longer had to be alone.

The moon rises and the night belongs to the owls. I close my eyes and

ruffle my feathers against the frostbitten air. It is a dreamless sleep, as

always. I must remain on alert should a great-horned owl decide to try

its luck tonight.

Eventually, the sun creeps over the horizon. Its light casts a harsh

glare onto the snow-covered banks of the landscape. I spread my stiff

wings, enjoying the feel of warm rays. My empty stomach complains,

reminding me that this is not the time to be reveling in the dawn of a

new day.

I push off from my branch and take flight. A number of alarm calls

sound from the woods beneath. My shadow passes over the feeder,
devoid of life. A warm thermal raises me high into the sky. I survey my

territory with sharp eyes that miss nothing.

Todays breakfast: freshly caught field mouse. This one made the

mistake of venturing out from underneath the snow. After devouring

what little meat it has to offer, I wipe my beak and talons clean in the

snow. Then, after doing one last sweep of my territory, I return to my

favorite branch with a view of the feeder.

Today is the day I will fill the empty cavity in my heart.

The first time I fly into the feeder, the birds scatter in every direction.

The blue jay shrieks a few choice words at me as he rockets into the

sky. I doubt he would have made very good conversation anyway.

A brave little black-capped chickadee perches a few yards above my

head, one beady black eye fixed suspiciously on me.

I open my beak to greet a new friend, but before I can get a word out,

the chickadee takes wing and is gone. I am alone at the feeder.

Perhaps I was too forward in my approach. I came in as recklessly as

the blue jayof course my size would send them fleeing.


An hour passes before the birds deem that it is safe enough to return

to the feeder. On my second attempt, I land farther away, sinking into

the untouched snow. The others have not yet noticed my presence,

though I detect a nuthatch eyeing me from its position on the side of

the tree.

Maneuvering through the snow is uncomfortable, to say the least. I

splay my wings and hop awkwardly towards the feeder. As I draw

closer, some birds fly while others sit stunned by the peculiar sight

before their eyes.

I tuck my wings and try to appear smaller. A polite greeting whistles

through my beak. The mourning doves bob their heads in distaste and

spread their wings. The rest are quick to follow, leaving me alone once

more.

I return to my branch, at a loss. The hole in my heart gapes, feeling

colder than ever. After two hours, the birds return, but I take no

pleasure in watching them.

They will not accept me among their ranks. No matter what I do, they

will not let me even get close enough to speak with them and convince
them that I mean no harm. If only they would listen, they would realize

the truth.

For the rest of the day, I do not move from my perch. The birds

commune in warmth while I remain trapped in this icy silence. The sun

sinks and the air turns chill. My hunger grows, but I make no effort to

sate it.

I have decided. If they will not listen to me, I will make them listen.

As the last scrap of sunlight vanishes over the distant mountains, I take

flight, cutting through the night sky like the sharpest of talons. My

wings tuck into my sides and I plunge towards the ground. Faster.

Faster.

They never see me coming. I hit the ground in an explosion of snow

and feathers. Theres a high-pitched scream and a flash of bronze as

the female cardinal makes her escape. Her mate does not follow.

He is clutched in my talons. His black eyes are bright with fear. He

writhes to free himself and I tighten my grip until he can barely move.

He has no choice but to listen.


I will make him see reason. He will be my voice and speak to the others

and they shall understand. I only wish to be part of their world. I do not

want to hurt them.

Tell them. Tell them. Make them understand.

The cardinal stares at me in shock, at a loss for words. Slowly, his

struggles cease to be. I wait for his response, loosening my grip so that

he can speak.

His response never comes.

The cardinal slumps to the ground. Limp. His dark eyes are glazed and

look to be gazing upon something very, very far away.

I am no stranger to death.

The hole grows deeperdarkercolder.

I look up and see her sitting in a tree, watching me. My eyes miss

nothing.
The female cardinal lowers her gaze, looking at the corpse in my

talons. Then she spreads her wings and flies away, never once looking

back. Deep within, I know she will never return.

My talons sink into my prey, staining them with blood as bright and

brilliant as the cardinals feathers.

I understand now.

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