My Little Songbird Writes

My little one is writing a book, an illustrated book for children. She sees me working all the time, scribbling, typing, translating, ‘channeling the ether' as I call it. Sees her sisters writing, drawing, composing. Understands the value, the impact of the written word. She sees that spoken words assume their own life in your being, but written words have a life which travels beyond the initial speaker. She wants to be part of my world, fall into the maelstrom of vowels and consonants which rule my existence.
Sitting here in the Florida heat, she drinks cocoa and whistles as she sketches, narrating the tale to me. I cannot follow the story line. She was conceived in New York and thus is prone to many digressions and sidebars. Even now she interrupts herself, whistling at the birds. They settle on her chair, heads cocked to listen. They caw and she trills back. Mating call? Want ad? Menu presentation? I do not know, I am not privy to the ways of feathered creatures despite my name.
Yes, I am a winged creature but not an avian. I am as Icarus, my wings attached with sticky plaster and artifice, subject to self-destruction. Consider my nom de plume, my wings only evident when I choose to fly, otherwise blending into my heavily muscled torso.
Shall I fly? Will my hubris make me fall into the sea? I would relish sinking into that salt brine, down down down....I know so well that I will fall that I do not even lift off.
My little one has the spirit. She wears an old headband with Mercury wings on it. I hope that she keeps her wings open, always open to catch the breeze and glide off. I want her to fly high, achieve, hit the sun. I want her to break the pattern.