She's on the flyway... the muse, the sprite. Like an Osprey migrating northward, she'll be soaring in by mid-afternoon. She'll be LOUD. She'll be EXPLOSIVE. She'll be BIG. AMPLIFIED. DYNAMIC. *Whoosh.*
Her overstuffed bag will land heavy in the nest, fly open and spill its guts: gritty relics, marbled stones, the tattered short feathers of a White-Breasted Nuthatch (who tread down timber headfirst). It'll burp up environmental scrap, bits of deciduousthem across the floor like a game of jacks. But no gift shop plastic souvenir will tumble from its basin, for there was no shop, and "money" was on the Leave at Home list.
She'll be tired. She'll wear the black mask and buff fringe of the young Osprey. She'll wrap her pinions tightly around her half-rested, fairly refreshed mother bird, and give her a squeeze that will linger for days. She won't want to talk —like she's just been cranked and loaded with exclamation points—It's Friday! The horses are on the track! Let's go, let's get out! Can you believe a 10:00pm curfew in that mudhole? You don't even make me go to bed that early! Gah! Hey, I've gotta tell you about Sophie and the bullfrog... *Whoosh.*She'll declare
She'll plunge into the habitat and eye her brother like he's feed in seas. I bet ya missed me, Max! Check this out. Her talons will be gripping an object that will not, just then, be discernible. She'll move toward him, but carefully, suddenly conscious of her top-of-food-chain behavior—she: a narrow, long-winged beauty, direct and fast in flight, and he: a raptor's prey.
He will have forgotten his complaint: the stillness, the quiet, the lack of pestering and poking, cawing for attention, and his admission to missing his 'lil sis after first denying the same. Hey Lu, he'll say coolly, and look up from his conservation, welcome home, kid.
Pick yourself up off the floor! she'll shout back at him, seeing him still crouched on the hardwood, snapping mechanical goons together, lost in the labyrinth of his mind. She'll still be clutching the object—the dead pond specimen in a plastic container, or a giant, pilfered sugar cookie from the mess hall. She'll shove it right in front of her big bro's face. She'll forget about personal space. Come on, check this out! Don't know what you're waiting for! *Whoosh.*
He'll get up, he'll smile, stretch his arms out to her, offer some big brotherly love, and pull her into his lean, muscled chest. Alright then, he'll say, patting her wide wings, peering into her steely blue eyes, bring it on.
(The mother will remember that before there was BAD, there was a clash. The Clash. And this thought will please her.)
That's fascinating Babes, the mama bird will deadpan. Now that you're settling in, tell us about your stay at camp.
And the feisty one will answer, It was really vile weather, they practically chased us out of town.
What? the elder bird will shoot back in disbelief. What happened? she'll ask. Food fight? Sneaking in the boys bunk house at midnight?
Mama, the baby bird will purse her beak and snort, Ma, I'm telling ya, you could hear the six guns sound as they chased us out of town. We were practically imprisoned! *Whoosh.*
(And the mother will also remember that by the time the muse—the baby Osprey—was three, she knew this Show's lyrics, or at least her version, in their entirety.)
No, really Lu, her brother will demand, straight-backed, hands at hips, how was it? Really.
Dude, it was the the BOMB, she'll screech with the widest, wickedest grin. She'll grab her big brother by the hand and race down to the bowels of the roost, to where the guitars, harmonicas, keyboard, karaoke, computer, foosball, acrylics, paintbrushes and costumes wait for her generous sweep. She'll be ready for the comfort of rituals. She'll fasten her padded talons on everything, in one fell swoop, and everything will smile, everything will come alive again. And though fatigued, she'll feel light, as airy as her feathered friends. *Whoosh.*
And then they'll fly off to her brother's meet, the one where he swims like a fish. *Whoosh.*
**Welcome home, Lulu Bird. Now we can get back to normal. We can get BAD.**