(Photo by Time Dusenberry)

I think I can see a bird. There’s hints of red and brown plumage, flickers of movement, among the foliage above my head. But then I ask myself, why would there be any birds here? Then again, why not? Birds can go where they please, flying. I, on the other hand, sit here in my chair. I haven’t moved for so long, I swear the people think I’m a statue.

Perhaps I should get up? There’s nothing wrong with my body, even after so long of being immobile. I can feel my strength still within me, unwavering. Ready to be drawn upon like pressure behind a sealed valve. And yet I sit here. What would be the point? People do not know me anymore. The last few who remembered me all died so long ago that I stopped counting the years. If not, I would expect to be attacked from time to time like I was in the early days of my sitting here. Now, at most I get curious children throwing rocks.

Birds. They never land on me. They, it seems, have not forgotten me. They keep their distance. Pity. I wouldn’t mind having a bird or two to study up close. Have their behaviors changed much over the years? Are there new signs of evolution among them, considering the changes to their ecosystem that have taken place?

Almost, it’s enough to get me to move. Even the hint of something new to discover is a tantalizing idea. Unfortunately, I know there hasn’t been enough time gone by for such things to be apparent. There is nothing new for me to learn, to see, to experience. Not yet, at least.

No one even asks for my knowledge any more. Do they even know to ask? Perhaps I should tell them. Perhaps not. The last time people sought information from me it caused such terrible war. Should I have kept certain things secret? If so, why was I created to accumulate all knowledge if not to share it?

I do not know the answers to my questions. I do not know all things yet, but there is no one who can give me the answers I need. I gave up asking people long before I came to sit here. They did not know any more than I did back then, and now they know even less.

It is a boring existence, sitting here, but no less boring than before. This way I at least don’t have the constant disappointment of looking for new discoveries and finding nothing new. I guess each new generation brings with it new people to meet, new faces to record, but after so many generations, the idea of meeting new people is almost laughable. People are people. Even their faces begin to repeat after enough time.

If only the ones who created me hadn’t also made me all but indestructible. People have tried, but as long as a single mote of me continues, I will rebuild and none of my information will be lost. In truth, when I first sat here, part of the reason was to make it easier for them to destroy me. They tried, oh how they tried, but ever and always they failed and I returned.

Eventually, they built a prison around me of reinforced concrete, not so much to keep me in but to keep others away from me. But time wears down even the strongest of buildings until now, I sit outside with only the hints of ancient walls around me. Trees grow all around me even though I remember when this land was barren and polluted from decades of war. Now it’s fertile and filled with life.

I look up and wonder if it is, indeed, a bird I’m seeing in the tree. They rarely venture this close and I wonder what’s changed for them. Normally it’s just the human children who come to this place. The adults only ever come to collect their children. They all avoid me, even most animals. Do I make them uncomfortable? I look like a person in many respects, which is why some of them have accused me of being a statue. Do these modern people even know what statues are? They have decent enough clothing so their technology can’t be too primitive, but I see no electronics among them, no worked metals beyond crude iron. There’s enough variability in their spoken language from generation to generation that I’m not certain if they know how to read and write. Without writing to standardize their language, it would explain the rapid changes their tongue has gone through.

The longer I watch, the more certain I am that it’s a bird. Possibly it’s making a nest. Possibly it’s just eating. I wouldn’t mind if it stays a while. I wonder if another one will join it or if it’s alone. I haven’t heard any birdsong yet. Perhaps this one will begin singing in a day or two. That would be a welcomed change, for a while at least. Maybe other animals would follow suit, then. Small rodents like squirrels and mice would be a thing to see again.

Though as I watch the bird and the children I am realizing that the children have noticed the bird as well and they are picking up rocks. If they do not kill the bird, they will at least chase it away. Are they the reason I see so few animals her? I shouldn’t be surprised. In fact, I’m not surprised. Just disappointed. The children laugh as they throw their stones and the bird flies away. They are triumphant in their victory and yet I see only what they have lost. They will not hear it sing. They will not get to see the nest or watch the young birds grow and learn to fly.

I find a hint of anger towards the children and yet I do not let myself to rise. Not again. I cannot care about what they do, about their nature. It is who they are and I will not change it. I know that from harsh experience.

So I sit, and watch, and do nothing as the children chase away the bird and cheer themselves and their mastery over this place, like little heroes.