Brooke Forbes

I almost swerved, at what I thought was a cockatoo, which turned into a white piece of paper, twisted and contorted, blowing in the wind. 

The incident resulted in an accident avoided, and a soft, inward chuckle at the absurdity of it all. 

This paper cockatoo reminds me of moments reconfigured, dismembered through perceptions, then rebuilt in precision and purpose. 

It was as arcane a moment as it was mundane, this paper cockatoo – 

t paper cockatoo that carved shapes and shadows,

the paper cockatoo that could not fly, but attempted to flutter,

the paper cockatoo crisp with folds and twisted into a shape that doesn’t resemble its original form.

Where will it fly to next, this creature of my own creation?

Will it land, amongst the other Mparntwe trash, ready to dispose of itself, a fragment of a forgotten past.

Or will is continue to take different shapes, evolving like a shadow puppet, transforming at will.

Only the wind knows.

I drive away, and the subtle hum of morning traffic blends with my mood and mind; again pushing me into the day.