Birds don’t believe in the window
that stuns them down to grass, under
a bush, sparse and dry, waiting for just
a whispered hint to burn.
If it’s still there later, I approach
with a bread bag hiked up over my hand and arm
because god only knows what mites or fleas
still ride, tucked into feather seams,
waiting to go farther
or to disembark.
Then, I twist the slick bag back
over the bird’s body like unrolling a sleeve
to button down its tiny life tight.
This poem first appeared in The Saint Katherine Review (Issue 6.2)