I'm A Bird Who Wants a Nest



I sat across the table.

He asked me, 

"Do you consider yourself a bird, or a tree? ... you see a tree, they root, and well ... a bird, they fly. Which one are you?"

I looked at the edges of the cafe, the woman sitting in the corner reading a left over issue of the New Yorker, sipping her coffee. The man, his ugly dog he must love with infinity, slumped down next to his Filson bag, and RedWing shoes, a caricature of what Brooklyn embodies.

My hip aching from sitting too long at this cafe, and my cup no longer full. We must have lost track of time, or more likely, I never intended to keep it in mind. I know with whom time seems to lose all meaning, and this man in front of me was one of those who made time taste different, like it was always slipping by too quickly whenever I would speak or listen. These conversations were like therapy to me. 

I took my time answering, though it probably didn't seem like much time. 

"I'm a bird, but I'm tired of making new friends everywhere I go, and leaving the old ones behind. Or I'm a bird, but I'm so tired of flying, and I just want to root for a little bit, I want to seek pursuit of what is not here, with my bird friends, but still make home with my tree friends. I don't know... I'm in between right now. Always wanting change, wanting motion, wanting new. But right now I'm happy here."


"You're a bird who wants a nest for a little while." 

"I'm a bird who wants to nest for a little while." 


By Domingo S.

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