The Fwhump Bird

After three unsuccessful attempts to write a blog entry, I realize I am a fwhump bird.

In its native setting, the fwhump bird begins by soaring around an imaginary vortex in broad and lovely arcs. Offering only a flap or two of its wings, it communicates deceiving calm. Only a concerned observer would recognize this stage as purposeful. It looks playful, romping through the open heavens with no aim other than the joy of exertion.

Yet every circuit cuts off a few feet of air. By turning back to examine its wake, the bird reassures itself nothing has changed— nothing wrong—but the simple act of retrospection draws the circle tighter. After all, how can it see what it’s doing if it’s always worrying about what it’s done? The Fwhump bird feels increased resistance. Wind meets its curl, and its curve almost seems too tight to hold.

…until the bird begins to enjoy its severe maneuvers, suddenly proud of the whistling circles marking its disciplined and superior habits. “Others,” the bird says to itself, “would not be able to maintain so keen an edge.” Pride possesses it. The bird dives into circuits shorter by fine distinctions, progressively smaller and smaller revolutions. Soon its flight path describes a language entirely the bird’s own. Each time around, it feeds itself with effort and speed, absolutely ignorant that it’s observed at all or that it’s seen as dangerously self-absorbed and bent on some odd confession of its uniqueness.

The fwhump bird stops looking back, stops looking ahead. The labor of its relentless flapping implies a point at the center of this circle, a destination that has to be worthy, but only the bird’s determination makes it seem so. Otherwise, that point looks like pure air.

At about that moment, the inevitable dawns in the bird’s mind, what’s coming. Anyone might expect the bird to balk, to return to gliding leading somewhere other than starting over, but it’s past that. No other end seems satisfactory. So much effort piled on effort–how could it stop now? With the abandon of throwing itself into a fire, the bird turns one time more, tighter.

Up in the sky, the bird becomes a spinning top, so impossibly fast and stable it appears momentarily stationary, a blur of feathers.

Then, with a resounding “Fwhump,” it flies up its own ass…and disappears.