When letting go grew wings

this morning, a bird flew off with my computer.

i saw it through the sliding glass door, its body half-hidden by fog that lay low, heavy on the ground, as though the sky itself wanted to conceal what was about to happen.

its feathers burned purple, green, and blue— not colors i knew from this world. but from another: the turquoise of sacred lagoons, the pink flame of orchids, the lapis breath of ancient gods.

a bird of myth— wind and light, fire and thunder.

its talons clutched all that i had kept bound: my words, my notes, the half-formed intentions, too afraid to release. tabs, prayers, unwritten letters— everything i thought i owned— weightless.

i pressed my hand to the glass, wanting to call it back, to protest the theft. but then—the familiar relief of absence.

the way emptiness loosens the chest.

the way letting go tastes like breath.

the bird was no thief.

it was midwife.

it lifted what i could not, carrying my fragments toward a truer shape, seeds of vision i may never see bloom.

and in that moment, a voice: “not every gift is yours to keep. some must be carried into the wide air, free beyond your reach, to show their life was real.”

the bird did what i could not. lifting my words above the earth, they sing where the fog thins into light.