My son swats a finch with his bat
and begins to laugh

when my daughter swoops
the breathing bird into her arms

and runs toward the river.
There, she stitches

the bird’s torn wing with staples
and hangs it to a tree. All day

she speaks
as if she’s never noticed its shadow

swaying above the chanterelles . . .
the waters whispering over rock.
People on couch
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