Magpie

A Magpie sat huddled on a trembling twig,
its eyes flickering like candlelight—
darting here, glancing there,
at everything and nothing at once.
Was it lonely? Or merely lost in thought?
Who is to say what stirs in a bird’s heart?

Then the morning sun shifted,
and a sudden gleam pierced the air—
a shimmer, a whisper,
a trinket glistening on the ground below.
It called to the Magpie,
softly, sweetly,
like a secret meant only for two.

“But I already have so many trinkets,” murmured the mind.
“None like this,” sang the heart.
And with a flutter of wings,
it was gone—
downward, chasing wonder.

It pecked, prodded, pondered—
evaluating, hesitating,
and then surrendering—
falling, without knowing,
into that tender illusion we call love.

“I need this,” it cried.
“This one belongs to me!
My life is hollow without it.”
So it clutched the treasure in its beak
and soared towards its nest—
only to find there was no room.
No matter how it tried,
the trinket would not fit
among the others it once adored.

It perched nearby, still and aching,
watching light dance across the thing
it could not keep.
And with a sigh—
it let go.

Now it sits in its nest,
day after day,
looking down at that trinket,
glistening still,
so close,
so far.

“Foolish Magpie,” they say,
“forever chasing shiny dreams,
mistaking fascination for love.”
But what do they know—
of longing feathered and fragile,
of the shimmer that stirs a soul awake?

Would a Magpie untouched by love
still dream of a trinket it cannot hold?
Would it question the comfort of its nest,
its own safe cage of plenty?
Perhaps they are right—
perhaps Magpies are meant to be silly,
to love what they cannot keep,
to ache for the impossible.

And one day—
when it wakes to find
the trinket gone,
stolen by time or by wind—
that will be the day
it will finally know.

Whether it was love,
or merely light.