Outside the bars sunrise flashes an indelicate orange-yellow. Birds cheer- up the advent of day, take wing grasping manners of clouds once sequestered in the night sky.
In my cell, mindless of fluorescent “day,” my self drags, somnambulant, through gloom – ever night. Ever night.
A family of Sandhills promenade past the bars of our back fence. They pause to converse with inmates – urge flight. Ancient, primitive they know better than to build for themselves. They know instinctively the boon of liberty.
As daylight dies I return to the wings I’m making out of hours and shortening of breath. My workbench is a classroom, my tools my frustration. A timesheet keeps watch, a laptop for restraints August through June…Devil’s Island, Alcatraz. The Sandhills just brought me a birthday cake.