Of course, I’d choose a bird.
Smitten by feathers. Forgetting
how easily birds break against
the windows. Limp and ruined.
I had my first dream of flying
when I was fifty-eight. I’m not
sure what that says about me.
My dream life is replete
with houses of many rooms,
but always grounded, even
subterranean. I pay close
attention to birds. Listen
to the rhythm of song, rattle
of notes from branches, flocks
like ribbons or battalions.
My mother fed songbirds,
but would bang on the window
if starlings arrived. Or squirrels.
She had a particular desire
to see only sanctioned beauty.
When a grosbeak slammed
into our front window, we rushed
to scoop it into a cushioned box,
pretending it might recover.
A female, red only in patches,
instead, she stiffened. When
I get up in the morning, it takes
a few moments to limber up,
that’s probably not going to get
better. In my dream, flying was
not effortless. I had to struggle
to break free from the ground.
