B L U E B I R D

I am a giant.

This morning, as I stood peeing in a bush next to the lawnmower I had just finished using, a bluebird perched on a pimple on my rear and whispered a story into my anus. It felt like he was singing:

There was once a caterpillar that loved to watch butterflies but had no idea he would grow up to be one, which he never did, because I ate him.

The caterpillar did not have a name that he knew of, but I refer to him as Stevie now. The late Stevie. Stevie the caterpillar, who died.

Stevie was born on a leaf. Imagine being born into the universe on something as small as a leaf. Imagine the edge of the leaf as a great green horizon. Imagine the tree as something too big to take in with your eyes. Imagine being covered in goo.

Hungry at birth, Stevie nibbled the world at his feet until there were holes in the leafy ground and nothing left to stand on. He was still hungry. Necessity moved him on to new leaves and, eventually, trees.  Life went slow. Butterflies danced above him as he chewed. There was not much to do but eat and grow and watch them flap through the sky on patterned wings, dreaming of their mobility.

That is about when I ate him.

I reached around and held the tiny bird in my hands. I squeezed until he was no longer breathing then dropped him into my mouth, feathers and all.

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