Rumi

I`m Rumi. Yeah, like the poet. Some big-deal Persian mystic guy from way back when, the 13th century or something. Jalal al-Din Muhammad Rumi -- real mouthful, huh? Plus, his name contains diacritical markings that I can`t type into HTML text fields! I didn`t pick the name, obviously. I mean, they tell me he`s the most popular poet in the world or whatever, but I never read a single line. Not on purpose, anyway. So now I`ve got this name hanging on me like a borrowed coat, and I`m supposed to live up to it? Fat chance.

I`m a green-cheeked conure, if that means anything to you. Most people don`t know what that is. It`s okay, though. I`m not one of those birds who go around correcting everybody. The truth is, I don`t even know much about myself. My past`s kind of hazy -- one of those blank spaces people pretend to fill in with a shrug and a sigh. I was out there somewhere, flapping around loose in the world like some kind of feathered Holden Caulfield. Free, yeah, but not in the way people mean when they say that word. More like lost. Directionless. The kind of free that gets you hungry and tired and cold.

Anyway, I ended up in this garage. Just plopped down there like I meant it. Some people might say it was fate. Others would maybe say dumb luck. I kind of think I heard a cockatiel calling through the glass and figured, what the heck --- maybe they`ve got snacks. I was starving, and I don`t care how poetic your name is, hunger makes a philosopher out of nobody.

The lady who lived there found me. She talked to me in that slow, sweet way people do when they don`t know what else to say. Then she disappeared and came back with water. Cockatiel-sized dish, like I`d notice. I drank it like it was the best water in the whole world. Then came the seed. I pretended not to care, but once she stepped away, I went after it like a maniac. I was that hungry.

Her husband came ambling in, smelling of goodwill and decency, and between the two of them, they got me into this nice makeshift cage he`d put together with his own two hands. It wasnâ€™t any kind of palace or anything, but you could tell he meant it. You could tell he really meant it. I was indoors and safe, which was something, and theyâ€™d thought of everything â€” a perch, a ladder, food, water â€” like they thought maybe I was some delicate thing that needed looking after. And maybe I was. Iâ€™d take it, too. Iâ€™d take all of it over the whole lousy sky any day.

While I was pecking at my seed, the lady`s on the phone, calling this bird rescue outfit called Mickaboo. I don`t know how they do it, but these folks -- they don`t mess around. They`re like the cavalry, only feather-friendly. Within hours, someone`s sister shows up, scoops me up, and sticks me in a carrier with air and a view. That view mattered to me. It really did.

Now I`m in foster care, getting my bearings. Still a little jumpy, not gonna lie. But when I`m left alone, I start acting like myself again -- alert, curious, playful, whatever that means. They say I look decent, though I`ve got this scruffy, been-through-something look going on. Just a bit dirty. I`m working on it.

So far I`ve eaten seed mix, cilantro, apples. Not bad, but an unusual culinary combination. I`ve taken a liking to newspaper --chewing it up, like it owes me money or something. I shake my tail feathers a lot, fluff my feathers, scratch behind my ears. Mostly trying to feel like a bird again,

Mickaboo says I`ve got potential. That`s what people always say when they don`t know what you`re going to be yet. But I`ll take it. Check back sometime. Who knows? Maybe I`ll turn into something worth writing about.

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