Emily Dickenson famously said, “Hope is the thing with
feathers,” but all feathers do not fly.
Ostriches have feathers—watchful, proud, strong, fearless,
violent creatures. Often
hope must be fearless, and violently protective to survive; it must snap at the
first hint of threat. It must run
so swiftly with the wind, that flight seems possible, to endure the times the
wind is silent, and the howls come only from the soul. It must puff itself up to look regal,
in stunning black and white, to stare down its beak with such a fierce look as
to silence the pity that the eagle and the dove so quickly bestow. The eye says—you will not make me your
pawn; fly as high as you wish, I can break you with one clip of my mighty legs,
one swipe of my angry beak. Your
pity is not welcome here—do not be so bold as to grieve for me in embrace. For an embrace will surely mean death,
to your throat and my grit. For valor I have, but restraint I can only contain
for a while.
The dove is meek and mild in her approach, and while she
tries to empathize, her tears only incite her own comforting, and strength is
expended, the little store wasted on one who is not the flightless party.
The kingly, majestic eagle looks down its nib as only a
royal would do. Knowing it may be
no match for the ostrich’s strength, but the ostrich will never keep its young
on a cliff, miles above all its prey.
It also pities the ostrich for its perilous young, stranded on the
earth, with only its weak courage to protect them. The eagle is cool and collected, knowing the ostrich has
much to favor, and envy, but never saying so, as that would give way to
maliciousness and cruelty. It
inclines its head in the ostrich’s direction, and nods its crown in respect to
the weaker fowl.
The penguin is not commonly thought of as a feathery
familiar, but it is. It oft is
overlooked for its merits as a bird—only thought of adoringly, with childlike
virginity and wholesomeness. It
mates for life—a well-known, repetitively spoken fact. But feathery friend or foe, the details
bereft of this get foggy. Their
penguin suit is likened to formal wear, as these beasts of great character
rightly deserve. They know
community like no sanctuary has ever seen—fishing with grace, diving with
beauty, surrounded by peers and family alike. The males dance in unison, wooing their females, laying
claim to their young’s refuge and nest.
The penguin is not afraid to display himself foolishly for his love. For
all this the penguin is the only one who really “gets” the ostrich. No feathers, no flight, no soaring
above the heights—but great courage is often shown in the differences between
honor and ego. And for that, if
the penguin could, or ever would, the ostrich just might allow the smallest
embrace, enfolded in the penguin’s chivalrous bosom, and let his tears of hope
flow freely. Because the hope of a
penguin, and of an ostrich, is much smaller, and therefore a hardier substance. The smallness of it often seems to
disappear altogether—but it still exists, in a still small form that ebbs and
flows with the tide.
