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120 ALAN MICHAEL PARKER Bird I have been losing a battle with a bird every morning, although the battle is with myself, so say my 27 therapists, the bird a reminder sent by whatever I don’t believe to remember what I keep forgetting because I wake up so damn early, 5:30 every morning, when my battle feels an unfinished reminder that I understand less than I believe. This morning, I thought to fool the bird into forgetting and so last night I put on my giant bird suit at 5:30, giddy as a commuter swimming in a huge martini, like a bird ga-ga over Spring. The sky felt lighter: I had to remember not to fly, to be a believer but not a fool—consider Icarus—and never to forget my basic humanity. But all night until 5:30, at times awake, I was a bird. All night the worms were huge, every battle a belief in living more. If you’re a bird you never forget what eating means, and if you’re a worm, 5:30 after a little rain means waking into hell, the bird supping and you’re the sup. But I wasn’t battling myself for once, or misremembering my obligations—although I did try to nest in bed, forgetting my wife, that was awkward—until just before 5:30 I rose to meet the bird bird to bird, a Battle Royale. I chanted to remind myself of the huge advantage I had in size, a belief in Nature’s equanimity. At 5:30, then, we met in the wet grass, the bird a nondescript robin, not a warrior, not the battle I expected. What did I expect? A reminder suitable for my forgetting every morning, for my belief the dawn was singing to make me forget. I have not forgotten. The ill-fitting bird suit wears like a belief, a reminder at 5:30 of my humanity, in the battle for my dreams. ...

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