The only thing that
makes us look up
untying laced brows
a scarce reprieve from
the glare of our screens
we glare right back at
is a soft thud at the
window. Neither of us
presumes it is a person
knocking, maybe the
neighbor, maybe the
gardener in a wide-
brimmed hat who tends
the flowers twice a week.
Is it dead, we ask in a
stage whisper, bracing
ourselves for a startle of
chestnut feathers against
freshly cut grass, a body
at rest after a life of tiny
impossible tasks. Faced
with no immediate evidence
of demise we return to what
needs to be done, picturing
a flapping of wings above us
slightly shaken but mostly
overcome with a shot of sheer
dumb delight at a canvas
of cloudless sky, a branch
to land on, a stray twig.
Later that week I look out
another window, sitting
puffy-eyed in a parked car
at dusk wearing the new
shoes I thought would
make everything better.
My chest soars and sinks
with an abrupt, arbitrary
unhappiness and I think of
that bird and its capacious
beating heart, a series
of soft thuds giving
such a small creature
the power to find itself
anywhere but here.
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Oof. I love this, Marly. Feeling it right in the gut.