Crane

I had never asked to be stripped of my wings—flying was my goal long before I recognized the source of uplift. I thought I would love the path of the crane, exotic and purposeful. Instead, I found myself on my knees, begging for the feathers to be plucked. I wanted to be a woman, transformed every night from the wingspan that knocked into other people’s expectations. I once said, lightly and with a slight smile in the corner, that none of us were actually women, we were all cranes. And yet, I find that we are nearly extinct. As I make my trek down south, seeking warmer skies and fairer suns, I realize I am alone. I learn that flying is isolating and too difficult against the draft, something the rest of the flock forgot to share. It is easier to play the role of contortionist, changing the feathers to frocks and beaks to beads. I’m not sure when I decided it would be easier to walk than fly, but I’m grounded—relating to the ostrich with useless wings and head in the sand. Barely classifying as a bird, but woman enough to satisfy.