Speaking of Mystical Birds and Corporations
The Thunder Bird
I am a thunderbird, a native of the North American region. You might have read about me in Native American folklore or seen my depictions in Cherokee, Chakshima, or Onojutta sculptures and paintings. I am quasi-human. That makes me very powerful, mystical and mischievous. When I flap my wings, I pull together the clouds and stir up strong winds that cause thunder storms. Not bad for a mystical guy-bird.
If I get really angry, I trigger and shoot lightning from my eyes. That’s one thing humans dread! At times, I use lightning to send messages to the evil spirits that control rainfall. You better don’t get me angry.
My greatest weakness is procrastination. Today, I am still having have a backlog of emails and messages both to read and to send to the weatherman. Ah, life is too short and my back aches.
Humans are my pals. They belong to the family of mammals, whereas, I belong to the mimidae family. Some say we are second cousins. Yes, I am a mockingbird and I am proudly human. As human as anyone can be. When I sing or mimmick, the whole world comes to a screeching stop!
My ancestors come from the passerine tribe of mortals. We love to rest on secure tree branches. Like our human cousins, we are perchers and lovers of security. Our abiding creed is to make a mockery of others.
Nobody pays me for doing it, but I do this anyway. That ‘s what makes me truly human. Too bad, my sad, fat, smart, ugly, pretty and quirky cousins seldom listen to anyone. Just like me, they yap and yap, while I mimic from dawn to dusk, without stoping to discern what the weatherman says. You sing jazz, I sing jazz, you do rock, I do rock. Everything, but country. It puts me to sleep.
When a disaster comes, I just wish I ‘d listened to your songs of sorrow.
First off, I am famous, I am a legend and I know it. My reputation precedes me. You must have come across me in Greek, Persian, Egyptian and Roman mythologies. A lot of people are very jealous of me for my longevity. Haha, I could care less what the weatherman says. Am a legend of the land. I live between 500 – 100 years.
On my last day, I build a nest in the twigs, I get inside it and self-ignite. When it burns fiercely into ashes, a younger me emerges. That ‘s the story the world wants you to believe. Do you really believe that?
Nobody gives me credit for my work ethic. Nobody cares about the painstaking effort I invest in transcending this life, alive. Half my lifetime is spent on preparing for the rainy days or my last days. That’s what makes me special!
It takes years of planning, surveying, and securing the defences from the prying eyes of lazy, ugly cunning green-eye monsters. In thorn-laden fortified myrr, I hide my eggs next to my immortal nest.
No one gives me credit for that. All they fancy, is a good story. Thus if you ask me, do I live a thousand years? I will say, “Heck Yes! I am famous, I am a legend and I know it.”