Saturday, April 17, 2021

napowrimo day no. 17


In the afternoon, we empty the cages. It's all seed and shit, but the feathers 

                        are so soft between my fingers.  The bones so fragile as I set them in teacups 

                                            one by one.  What fun when we'd chase them through the house,

the top of the drapes where they'd wait. Once, my mother opened a window

            and a pair of finches went missing for days, turned up in a town hours away.

                    Who can say what distances we travel while everyone else sleeps in the house.

How many times I carried them to the garden and begged them to go.  But every morning, 

            hungry on the ledge. They'd roll over and over in the dirt. Sip the tiny bits of water

                          in a bowl. I'd wrap the cages carefully in towels at dusk and they'd quiet,

but still I could hear them cooing softly in the dark.  The world circumscribed 

                     by need and even the trees so far from the house. We could never imagine 

                                      making it there before night or hunters got us.  

                                                        Our hearts stopped, so tiny in our chests.

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