[G] Polaris

I can tell where he's missing a feather.

You can't see it, not at first, but hearing the song of his wings, dissonant and flawed, you become aware, you look again and there it is, the missing feather, precisely the fourth one from the tip of the right wing.

I spoke none of it and he did the same; the newfound knowledge was immediately obsolete upon discovery.

Maybe the reason for his soothing speaking voice, his angelic singing voice, the reason he skillfully plays the pan flute to the dancing light of the campfire every night, maybe they all are but a compensation — a gift, as they like to call it — for his damaged instrument, one not even the best restorer in the world can repair.

"You can't repair what's missing."

I lift my eyes from the broken, handless compass in my palm to look at him, and he at the object.

"If a gear was missing instead, it would still be usable," he adds.

"It would be unreliable." I set the compass down, north facing his direction.

"It would, wouldn't it?" He doesn't seem bothered by my remark. "But how would you know it's wrong if you don't know which way north is yourself?"

I don't answer and he doesn't expect me to. He stands, shedding his shawl and his cowl, freeing his wings, and ascends the sand dune that traces an arched horizon under Polaris and a sea of stars. Like wind chimes in a gentle breeze, the faint sound of his dissonant song reaches my ears with each step, quietly, distantly, brokenly. He stands against the night and hums a melancholic tune and lets the desert gusts sift through his feathers, carrying music in their wake.

And I watch the silhouette of his wings sway where sky and land meet, his song in perfect disharmony with the wind.