San Diego Reader, September 13, 2017



There Wasn’t a Wing in the Sky

Black tree limbs crusted with ice. Inside, we breathed into our scapulas,

unfreezing them from twelve hours at the computer. Ripples of fluid

began to move through our backs. Our arms grew longer, lighter, dropping

out of hunched up necks. Our heads turned freely like lighted globes

from childhood, traveling the spaces between continents. We didn’t mean

to entice them back, but there they were at the window, four bony bluebirds

with rusty colored throats, balancing on a tree branch, their feet making

indentations in the ice. Maybe they were injured, couldn’t make

their usual trip, faced a winter downtown in the raft of a warm building.

Pecking at the window in some kind of coded message, they watched, amused.