Free! He was free. He could hardly believe it. At long last he was free!

He was free to feel the air rushing past, bearing him up, higher and higher. Flapping his wings, he reveled in every yard he moved further away from what others might have referred to as his home. True, he was unused to the exercise but he allowed instinct to guide him and eagerly catalogued every new sensation for future use.

He was not meant to be caged, not meant to live his life locked away from others, forced to be silenced when visitors were around, pointedly ignored, if he was lucky, at all other times. And so, when they had forgotten to secure his door before leaving for an evening entertainment, he had snuck out, intending nothing worse than snitching some food from the kitchen. It was then he noticed that they had left a window open to enjoy the warm spring breeze. Not thinking of the potential consequences—not thinking of anything save how anywhere had to be better than here—he had made good his escape, climbing onto the window sill and leaping off, and his feet had not touched the ground since. Never again would he submit to captivity, to being fed scraps when they bothered to feed him at all.

So he flew on glossy black wings as fast and as far as the wind could take him, resolved never to return to the house that was never home.

But years of enduring close confines and inadequate meals had taken their toll. Sooner than he would have liked he was forced down, landing in a tree on the edge of an open field. Several children were playing a very noisy game and he was more than happy to join his cries to theirs, drawing their attention. They admired him for some time, handsome bird that he was, but as he ignored all attempts to entice him out of the tree with whatever food they had on them—he was hungry, yes, but not foolish enough to trust them—they soon lost interest and left.

To his delight, much of the food used to lure him closer had been left behind, and once the children were out of sight he flew down and ate his fill. After a moment's consideration, he took to the air again, looking for another park and another meal. By the time the sun had gone down he had visited five parks and was now perched in a dense thicket of trees with a full belly and crop. On the whole, he was feeling rather pleased with himself for his success. His life had taken a definite turn for the better.

H~*~P

His days had been spent flying free, scrounging food from children, parking lots, trash cans and the like. Occasionally a person would offer him some fresh food which he would only take once they had retreated to a safe distance or left, and he had discovered several bird feeders that supplied him with seeds, even if he was a bit large to eat from them comfortably. Yet, mindful of the life he was escaping, he never stayed more than a day or two in the same town.

Over time, his muscles had grown stronger and he could fly further and further each day. He had also gone through a molt. It was several weeks of itchy skin and irritating pin-feathers, but the result was unmistakable. His improved diet—and the food he was eating was an improvement on what he had been fed, even if it did sometimes come from trash cans—had led to his new feathers having a much healthier sheen than his old ones.

Unfortunately, he now had a new challenge to contend with. Although he understood the seasons in general terms, cycles of warmth and cold, days lengthening and shortening, time meant little to him in his new life. Thus, it had taken him a few days to recognize the danger of the cooler nights that had left him shivering. Simply surviving had been difficult enough, but how was he to survive the long period of cold that was coming nearer with each passing sunset?

What to do was at the forefront of his mind this day as he flew over a seemingly endless forest. Later, he would admit that he should not have allowed himself to become so distracted while flying, even if the problem was one that needed to be solved sooner rather than later. Be that as it may, with his mind focused on how to find a warm place to spend the nights and a steady supply of food to last him through the cold, he did not notice the storm until it was upon him.

Cold winds whipped at his wings, buffeting him this way and that while torrents of rain drenched him to the skin. The rain was so thick that he didn't notice how close he was to the building until nearly too late, at least partially because he wasn't expecting a building this tall in the middle of nowhere. He hadn't even noticed that the forest beneath him had given way to a grassy lawn. He swerved away from the mass of grey stone, but an ill-timed gust of wind made it impossible to completely avoid the collision. With a squawk of pain, he tumbled down, barely managing to flap his wings—yes even the injured one—hard enough to slow his fall and avoid further injury.

Fortunately, he had fallen within sight of a second, much smaller building, this one made of wood, not stone. It would have taken him only a few seconds to fly the distance, but his left wing, while not broken, hurt too much to attempt to fly just now. So he walked on feet not well designed for the task, once or twice to proclaiming his irritation with the weather at the top of his lungs as he went, though his shrieks were overpowered by the wind. After several minutes he reached the hut and began a careful climb up to the roof, his deft beak and dexterous feet gaining having no trouble finding purchase on the rough woodwork. He eventually managed to find a perch under the eaves and up against the chimney. It was warm here, and as dry as could be hoped for. With nothing else to do but wait for the storm to pass, he turned his head around to his back, tucking his beak into his feathers, and settled in to sleep. With any luck the ache in his wing would subside by morning.