My son swats a finch with his bat
and begins to laugh
when my daughter swoops
the breathing bird into her arms
the breathing bird into her arms
and runs toward the river.
There, she stitches
There, she stitches
the bird’s torn wing with staples
and hangs it to a tree. All day
and hangs it to a tree. All day
she speaks
as if she’s never noticed its shadow
as if she’s never noticed its shadow
swaying above the chanterelles . . .
the waters whispering over rock.
the waters whispering over rock.
