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.