[January 2026, Issue 47] The Weight of Birds, Richard C. Rutherford

I imagine the sky and how much lighter it would be if it weren’t for the weight of birds. Each molecule of air pressed together tighter by the incessant, downward push of wings—a canopy of heavy feathers. I feel the atmosphere pressing; seeking voids, bubbles to collapse, my empty lungs to fill.

Breathing used to be so easy, so luxurious. I could pull in only as much as I required. But now, the weight of birds forces heavier, thicker, pressing inhalations that make me gasp.

And I must push my exhalations, tensing slightly at the end, savoring a memory with that brief moment of stasis, the pause I hold, before the next oppression.

And this is not about forces beyond my control, about my loss of freedom, about oppression and how powerless I feel, about how affected I am.

It is about how distant birds affect the way I breathe.