By Arthur Pitchenik

Sunlight alone incubated an abandoned egg in a quiet corner of the coop—and I was born again. Unlike the other hatchlings, I would not—could not—peck for insects, no matter how hungry I was, and I longed, more than anything, to fly.

One day, I watched a caterpillar struggle to crawl toward a plant, contracting its body, wrenching itself forward. It then spun a silken thread and hung from a leaf. A chrysalis slowly enclosed it—fragile and still—for days. Then the shell cracked, and a butterfly wriggled free—wet and crumpled. Its wings unfolded slowly, fluttering with the promise of flight.

I was mesmerized.

“Can I fly with you?” I whispered.

The butterfly replied softly, “You’re a chicken. You can’t fly.”

“Why?”

“You’re too heavy, and your wings are too small.”

“Why?”

“You were bred that way—so you can’t escape. You were meant to lay eggs and be eaten by humans.”

I lowered my head.

“And you’re a grounded insect meant to be eaten by chickens—yet I let you live. Is there a higher authority for me?”

“I was meant to become a beautiful butterfly.”

“And I was meant to become a sleek bird with enormous wings–meant to escape.”

As dawn broke, I felt myself grow lighter. My wings stretched wide and strong. I lifted from the coop and soared above the trees, toward the rising sun.

I awoke to the beeps of my cardiac monitor and the  breath of my ventilator—

Tomorrow I’ll be a gazelle.

*   *   *

Arthur Pitchenik is a retired physician who writes poetry, short stories, and flash fiction about adversity, vulnerability, empathy, struggle, and triumph in fantasy, science fiction, and contemporary genres.