The Pileated Self

There on the branch above the water,

My pileated self sits.

Constricted pupils dart suspiciously, scanning the surroundings for anything or anyone

That may compromise my throne of isolation.

Toes suspend over the edge, 

Fear of the fall palpable only to me.

Why? 

I cry. 

Why do I need to leave this perch? 

If I stay here I could live,

Away from food, water, and love, 

but I can live some semblance of an existence.

Leave me be. 

I peer over my shoulder. 

Impending death approaches despite my calls for inaction.

A shift in the nature breaks my ground.

Fueled by fear, I take flight

But my damaged wings from self inflicted cuts and bruises prevents the soaring

I desperately need.

I tumble, gracelessly into the cold watery Meadow below.

Maybe if I thrash,

Maybe if I scream,

Maybe if I crawl at the concaving mud bank and bury the earth deep under my nails

I can reach my branch - 

My perch of purpose.

When fight fails me, I grow quiet hopeful that waiting in the shadows

Will eventually reveal the opportune moment of survival.

But true to my nature, I am unable to keep quiet, keep hidden.

The ripples of my struggle lead You to me.

I am submerged,

Forced to drink water into my lungs.

Silenced by the liquid 

I cannot 

Cry out,

Lash out.

I cannot plant firmly on a branch to exist out my days.

I cannot scream into the quiet nature that I demand to be heard.

Peace settles over the forest.

Ripples end their journey into oblivion.

And the Witness of this death, crouched on the shore,

Wails unknown tears of joy.