Black Wings

For birds, their wings literally represent their livelihood. And for ravens, they take humongous pride in their strong flight feathers.

So when one proud raven was broken by an accidental shot by a newbie hunter, he dragged his shattered pride of a body to the nearest shelter he could find. As it turns out, he fell near one of the bird parks.

As he hid under the shade of the foliage, he realized that the stray bullet had destroyed his feathers. As he was dwelling on his misfortune that he wouldn’t be able to fly any time soon, he realized that he was also really lucky that the bullet has not broken any of his pinion bones.

As he lay in the shadows watching the other birds in the park, he dwelled on how he used to envy them, being fed at set hours in a day, and never having to go hungry or look out for predators. He, on the other hand, had to forage for food to fend off starvation, always keeping his guard as lowering it by even just a fraction would result in death.

He watched the regular exhibited birds around him, some glad for this life of captivity for the price of flight. But there are also others, like him, who would stare into the vast skies for hours on end, dreaming, of the freedom they once had.

He should only be so lucky. After all, he would regain his wings one day. The others would never have the chance.

For that day, for his freedom, he would wait.

Wait for the day he would regain his place in the blue sky.

His wings.

His pride.

His freedom.