I used to be free, feeling the breeze beneath my yellow beak

I used to dance, delicately flapping my wings in the air

I used to chirp, challenging my children to follow my glide 

They used to watch us through the window smiling

pointing out our orange bellies and slick blue backs

They once were little like my children

She was the landlord, the mother of the nest

She assembled her home as I constructed mine

We scavenged for food to feed our children, helped them grow

I am now in a box, my wings are tattered

torn and weathered from the wind

My children, now grown, glide above making sure I am alright

But I am sick,

too sick to fly,

too sick to dance,

too sick to try

Now, grown, they carefully carry me in my cardboard box

Their smiles have faded and their eyes look heavy

Through the window she watches from her bed

Soon we will both be free.