Rest and Not

I recall it gave me pleasure to hold his little body in the palms of my hands, lightly, I’d stroke over his wings, smoothing the feathers down, and then cup my palm to the wing, my fingers extending over his back to his spine.
When he was fully awake, he didn’t allow it; he’d squawk and lift his talons and spit: “I’ll put out your eyes!”
But if he were drowsy, and not in a cranky and defensive mood, he’d lean into my palm and maybe I’d pick him up and hold him to my bosom while untangling the floppy tabs of his cockscomb, or rest him in the crook of my elbow, or prop him up, there on my drafting table, between my hands.
Then I could appreciate the wonder and beauty of him as a living being, unconflicted by all the wrongnesses of the quasi-conscious state he lived in typically. There was peace in the disengagement from our constant bickering, our utter aesthetic differences, and lack of acceptance of them, in this proximity. Truth be told, our bickering was legendary; people gathered to watch us discuss matters, sometimes exaggerating things to provoke greater dramatic outrage. I proposed that we call ourselves the “Truth Fighters,” not to labor the point, but to say, it was hard to guess if we were in league with each other or were enemies, and hard to say whether we were for the truth or opposed. At the time, he snorted at the suggestion and turned his head aside.
When he gave into sleep this way, he was making some kind of concession as well, unspoken, but real: he was giving in to me.
I’d hold him, however it was, for a few minutes, feel the chill on my own shoulders, and then put him in his own little bird bed, wash my hands, and find something else to occupy my mind.