The Clay Bird
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June 26, 2026
The Clay Bird
She shaped the bird from the mud of the riverbank, her thumbs pressing wings into being. It was small enough to fit in a child's palm.
The kiln fired it overnight. In the morning the bird had turned the color of burned honey, and she could hear it singing, though of course it was not singing.
Some art is meant to be held, not displayed. She gave it to me without a box. 'Carry it carefully,' she said. 'It knows how to fly.'
Comments (3)
I needed to read this today.
Your voice feels like a familiar room.
Would love to see this expanded into something longer.