Quivering plates, so thin, like feathers, they lace the wire that arches over the earth far below. The shiny copper plates gleam almost golden in the strange combination of mechanism and nature. The bird coos. Soft and pliable, almost unheard entirely, but like the small, chipper, beat of a piano deep withing. The cogs and small gears make a funny crackling noise as the machine carries on through the pale, blue, sky. Musings on such a beast pepper the air below, as stars freckle the sky.
“I say! What is that?” And other similar statements are whispered like shadows, and tint the moment with a puzzling hue. But the mechanical bird continues on, it’s wing beats a hum of responsibility. A time before it there were postal pigeons, ones with real feathers and real wings. And a time after it there will be other such things to transport one’s messages. But seldom remembered by history is the sliver in between, the whisper of a reign, of the mechanical bird. My mechanical bird.