The muted mockingbird

When she decided to stay and discover what beautiful music they may make together, you should have seen the way he looked at her. Her plumage, her markings, her song seemed to be just what he always wanted. They swirled in a world of their own orbit sharing each other's wind.
She lifted his eyes, he lifted her wings.

The two created a distinct harmony, they found each other's notes and carried them-for each other- until those once juicy earworms began sounding like the same old shriveled song. 

He began a solo search for any new and interesting instruments he may have never heard before. 

His memory of her distinct beauty faded into the textured wallpaper. 

She stayed inside, dutifully pecking at the seeds he left thoughtfully strewn on the circle floor. He did not see that being free was what made her breed a thing of beauty. Her whistles turned into wheezes. 

She swung back and forth like a pendulum on her roost, passing the time counting up and down, staring at the bars and seeing the space between as just enough room for the stale air to pass through.

She never could have imagined such an enclosed life with nobody to hear her, nobody to sing to, nobody to pick up her next note, nobody to suggest a new one, no ears to perk and not a single tiny conscience to consider what happens to a bird in a cage. An Orca placed in a pool causes its dorsal fin to fold over, an undeniable six-foot sign of suffocation. She had never felt so isolated inside, inside, inside, feathers fold-over feathers, her heart feels muffled.

He, her master, must have clipped her wings out of security, his own. Now she would never notice her sky falling without the ability to see-above. 

He tries to reassure her, inside voices, silence is sweeter, don’t sound so shrill, you are missing nothing- outside. 

He said he prefers that she cannot soar, her helpless flapping is enough to demonstrate that she is still alive-inside. And when the first shadow of the evening ravens going west crosses the white wall, he is drawn to the changing light like a flicker of truth, a flame he cannot grasp, the murder moves on and on. 

She is told she should be grateful for her brass plated bars, the security, safety, the solitude and peace. Outside of the comfortable zone he made for her is a world full of predators, he warns her. She can only pray that one day she may feel the chase, the furious wind under her breasts once again. She thinks she could live happily without this peace of empty place. 

Noticing his neglect, she no longer manages more than a feeble peep. 

He thinks she could maybe use a feathered friend to share her sentence, to converse with, to occupy her while he is away. He is always away, even when inside, he is no longer at home.
He has forgotten their chorus.  

He does not reach in to touch her.
He no longer hears her song and conjures up memories.
He said he will never let her go. 

She knows that means, outside. 

She has heard that some species lose their voice from overuse, abuse and stretching it to the extreme, and others become muted, like the fallen tree in the forest, only to be taken in by the forest again.
She barely makes a breeze, not a spontaneous sound escapes, nobody picked up her last call, none saw her last tweet, without any melody, there is no need to wonder why her song is no longer sung.
There were no words to share. 

No echoes would carry her away.

Image in Alcide Dessalines d'Obigny, Orpheus dorsalis, c. 1847.