nest
It’s weird to see a finch and a snake having a conversation. To any passing individual, it is just unintelligible birdsong being uselessly sung to its own demise. The finch hops from foot to foot, turning its head and occasionally flapping its wings. The snake flicks his tongue in and out of his mouth, watching the finch carefully. At any second, the serpent could open his jaws, engulfing the finch into his mouth and ending its song right there. But the snake just watches, its eyes piercing into its companions tiny movements. Such an odd pair, those two.
“Oh, wouldn’t you help me?”
“Your problems aren’t mine.”
“Oh, but you’re the only one I can talk to!”
“I am no such thing.”
“Please! You always know how to help!”
“I know how to convince you my jaws aren’t comforting.”
“Please Mr. Serpent!”
“Your nest is waiting for you, finch.”
And it was true. Those sharp pupils cut deep into the finch.
“You lie to me, and you lie to yourself. Leave me alone.”
The finch had already sung this song. Oh, the serpent has heard it again and again.
It’s the song that the forest assumes, the assumption of predator and prey.
The serpent, the bringer of death, listens to the finch beg for the end again.
But a seasoned killer like him knows when it’s really time to end a life.
But the finch still has places to go, nests to build, feathers to preen, and songs to sing. No matter how insignificant, no matter how desperate, the finch will live, the finch will sing.
It flies away.
They all fly away.