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.

Published in Saint Katherine Review (Issue 6.2)