There’s a dying baby chicken outside my window as I write this. Pale brown, her spine got snapped this afternoon during a food stampede. She’s still, immobile, yet she speaks. How unreal.
Life wants to move, but is trapped in an immobile object. So heavy. The spirit can’t move, so it speaks. It can’t get to where or who it wants to get to, so it speaks. It calls out.
But the spirit will stop calling out soon. I can sense it. It’s only a matter of time. And when it stops calling out, I’ll know she’s dead.
How many are calling out to you?
