Cockatoo

There was a time when I swung a bird from its talons between my eight year old legs, and with all the momentum in my upswing, I shared in the anticipation of flight.  It was in that moment when that dangerous creature reached its capacity of launch, flapping its unpracticed arms with exasperating might, that we both felt ourselves rise, for just a moment.  And I couldn't let go.  Because we both knew she couldn't fly.  And so I set her on the edge of the broomstick, held it out away from my chest, and ran as fast as my little legs could carry me.  I bobbed that stick up and down, letting it sink close to the ground and heaving it upwards with everything that I had.    In that up momentum,  I would see her excitement.  Her head would begin to bob, like, "Yeah," and her wings would begin to shimmy and flap.  For a minute there, she would experience flight with me, our grips both never leaving that stick.  I would soon slow, having never never placed on the presidential fitness test.  I'd sink to the grass, lungs heaving, and collapse on my back.  And she would, in the fashion of a chicken, slink away from me, head bouncing along with every step.