Light shines through the open window onto the cage placed in front of it. The brass stand glows in mid afternoon shimmers. It’s nearly dusk, but not just yet. I’ll need to wait a big longer for the reds and oranges of the true sunset. The lazy way this form of sunlight lounges around the room is making me tired, but if I sleep now I’ll be sure to miss the show.

The door at the far end of the room opens, as it does every day at this time. He comes in and sits himself in the arm chair facing the cage.

“Pretty bird,” he says to me, “pretty bird, you love your cage, don’t you?”

“Love my cage,” I repeat to him, and smile, “love my cage.”

I straighten my hair and smile wider, trying to get him to look at me instead of the grey and brown buildings that make up most of the view from the front room. “Look at me!” I scream in my head, “Please! Look at me, pretty bird loves her cage!”

He doesn’t look, but asks again, “Does pretty bird love her cage?”

I will not answer this time, I’ve gotten no reward. I think that he’ll ask again, this time with his eyes on me to make sure I reply as taught. He doesn’t look, nor does he ask again. This day he’s far away, thinking of the pretty birds that don’t come in cages.

I notice a crystal glass in his hand that I’ve never seen before, a tinted liquid lolling around in a circle, moving as lazily as the sunlight. He raises the glass to his lips and swallows a large amount of the drink, then winces. I wonder to myself why he would drink such a painful drink.

It’s then that he maneuvers himself from his seat; I witness the long process of his crossing the room in silent confusion. He’s never moved so unsteadily, he must be sick from the painful liquid. It must be poison, and I’ll not drink if offered some.

I’ve many times considered my lot, and found it comfortable enough. In these moments, these confusing seconds, I considered my lot and found the cage holding me in the line of this staggering and most likely dying man entirely not comfortable. The gently crafted bars suffocated my thinking, and I was left baffled and at the whim of my keeper.

“Love my cage,” I whisper sweetly, “love my cage.”

He did not lower his eyes from the window, but reached his hand, not holding the crystal glass, to the long braided satin rope attached to the curtain. The curtain was my greatest sadness, beyond even the reproach of my keeper. Its sole purpose, as I can see, is to bar my vision of the sky, and the sun.

“It’s too damn bright in here,” he mutters, and in an abrupt movement swings the curtain across the open window, shutting out the light and dimming the room.

I lower my head, wanting not to see the light of the imminent sunset push against the heavy fabric. He turns his back and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

*****

The window in my new home is larger than the last. Instead of brown and grey buildings, I watch open green fields under the widest patch of sky I’ve ever seen.

My new keeper has no crystal glasses full of poison, nor does he close the curtains during sunsets.

I’m not sure quite when he arrived, but I opened my eyes to this larger window, and no cage surrounding my body. I was sitting on a thick piece of wood on top of a pedestal about the height of my previous cage. A door behind me opened slowly, and I turned to the sound. A man, much like my keeper from before I had slept, entered this new room and closed the door.

“Pretty bird,” he said in a voice much smoother than that of my previous keeper, “pretty bird.”

I straighten my hair and smile, knowing what to say in reply. I had been taught this trick; I would impress this new keeper.

“Love my cage,” I sang, “love my cage!”

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