She stands open-mouthed
as the bird careens into glass—
a soft thud, then feathered dust
drifting in the brittle air.
Among the stubble of guinea grass,
where cattle have grazed too close to bone,
a dove-grey body trembles in shock,
as the drought continues, broken only
by teasing nighttime drizzles,
while the land’s long thirst echoes our own.
The bird breathes still. Its neck is whole.
She imagines wings aching for escape—
not hers alone, but all of ours,
all of us bound to the same fragile pause
between freedom and impact.
The mind still gropes for order,
tries to turn suffering into sequence—
Up. Root. Sink. Down.
Rinse. Repeat.
Still, she remembers the willow,
how it bends, how it survives.
In that memory,
a small forgiveness rises.
For the bird. For herself.
For all of us smacking into
what we cannot see
and getting up again,
wings quivering,
eyes open to the sky.
Single feather ~ bj 2025