One Bird, One Bad Hand

ONE BIRD, ONE BAD HAND
A middle aged man walks by a tree. He is an amputee. He's only left with one hand. The left hand. Three playful little boys are behind him. They push and pull each other in the road. They troll each other's pants. They shout and giggle. Step on dung beetles and celebrate their kills with ectasy. They have both hands. All of them. They are perfect atleast in the eyes of the middle aged man who feels like he could do more in their conditions.

I'm coming from the opposite direction. Minding my business but it's difficult to ignore the little boys. Its impossible. My empathetic heart is drawn to the man's missing hand too. What a loss! What a miss!

Its around midday and the sun is quite scorchy. There is a tree at the impending meeting of all parties. Its soo big with brances that sway to the rhythm of the wind. Like a choir's tone to the conductor's hands. The tree is not alone. There is a clearly visible bird on one of its brances. It flaps its wings in an attempt to take off but its only a gimmick. It chirps to who knows what. Nobody knows but its fate is on the man's mind.

I'm not the only one to have noticed the bird. The man's predatory insincts seem to be a little higher. He wants to hold the bird in his, well, one hand. One which suffers the futility of a stone shot. The bad hand. The little boys, due to their naive outburts of desire seem not to have noticed the beautiful bird. The man shushes them up in the local usual way. A vertical index finger lies perpendicularly against his lips. This message is universal. The little boys understand immediately. The man, acting purely on insticts bends to pick up a small well rounded pebble from the road surface. Takes a keen but brief look at the little perfect boys with both healthy arms tucked in the shoulders. He holds -enviously- one the boys by one hand and gestures the boy to the bird on the branch. The boy's eyes follow the pointing finger's path towards the bird. He places the pebble in the boys right hand and pleads with him to take the bird down. There is confidence in his eyes. The boy smiles at belief placed in him by the man. He is optimistic. He takes stance. Leans back and his right arm falls towards the back fully stretched like a tennis player at service. He swings and takes aim at the bird.

"Prrrrrrr!"
There goes the bird. Its neither on the branch nor in the man's left hand. The man clicks and keeps walking. Struggling to understand privilege. Perhaps thinking he could have done it himself. The boys descend back to their playfullness. I walk by. I stay to my lane. What a miss!