It is true. Red Meat can take time off your life. My dad's Uncle Paulo was 44 when he died. He enjoyed a hunk of red meat every day of his life. Family story tells of his adoration, almost addiction, to various red meats. He was as skinny as a rail. Every day, he'd walk from his Bronx 3rd floor walk-up, to the kosher deli on 48th and Marcum to get his 3 beef jerky sticks. When he was only 44 it killed him.....not the meat...a garbage truck hit him. still, he did go out for the meat. Apparently he could sing too.

Through a tiny entrance, from the walls of towering ice, sits a cave a thousand feet tall. Swinging in the gentle breeze, hang a million small pieces of colored string. Like a massive mobile with one tattered piece of thick red twine holding it tight to the top of the cave, the sole supporter of the incredible mass of color. Most hang close to one another, some over time are touching and gently knotted. Others hang close to the edge of the structure, alone from the tangle. A few lie quiet, still attached, dangling near the cave floor. As one piece separates and drifts to the ground, a young swift hops over quickly, grabs up the string and flies it away through a tiny hole to the outside world. The small bird returns  - The rest of the flock sits, patiently waiting under the hanging mass for the next to fall. The flock is warmed by a single ray of sunlight streaming in through a tiny entrance, reflecting the ice and colored strands like a grand cathedral.


“Why must we wait?” Asked the swift.  “There’s all that we need, ready to be taken.”


A voice of an older swift answers

“Its not up to us alone to choose which strands will line our nests, but with wisdom and patients we wait in comfort and warmth of infinite possibilities. In time the sun and wind will help guide us.  The wait is for us,  
. . . as much as the sting.


 “But I can see which strands are best, which are strong, I know now, what colors I want to line my nest.” 

Said the younger Swift.


 “Patience.”  Said the older bird

“If we take, others will be in want.  No, now we watch . . . .  And we wait. “


They waited for days for the next string to fall.


The impatient young bird could take it no longer; he races into the dark, at the top of the cave.

“ I don’t need the help of the wind, I’m much wiser,”

Thought the bird.

”I’ll decide for myself the color of my nest and I’ll have it all without wait.”


And with one quick peck, he snips the red piece of twine, sending the mass to the cave floor.

“Now I’ll choose my own way”

“My treasures will bring me comfort and warmth much greater than the light”

He thought.


He returned to the floor of the cave, excited to show off his victory to the others, only to find the flock lying strewn 
about; all but the oldest swift had been killed by the weight of the falling string.


 “With haste you’ve chosen your own path, without regard for the world around you.

Said the old bird.

 “Soon the dark will bring the cold, and wind will gather itself and leave us, taking our lives with it.”


 “In the comfort of the dark and cold, with your last breath, enjoy your riches”


At the top of the cave, hanging from the last of the red twine, dangles one small black piece of string, fluttering in the breeze . . . . . . . . . . It breaks from its perch, falling slowly through the shadows, landing on the damp cave floor.