What is it about birds
trapped in your kitchen
(by the
agency of, in this case, your cat,)
that when you kindly oblige
by locking up the predator
and open the kitchen window
instead of freedom,
the thrush opts for vigorous thrash
against the wall,
against the ceiling,
against the tileback
shedding in the process
a shower of wing feathers,
dusty
grey-brown, pale fringed,
so light they're barely discernible
to the touch.
You know what you need to do
but there’s a reluctance
to grasp this
pale buff underside
these frail pink legs
and you’re perhaps a little wary
of this
small, sharp uptilted beak
So you grab a tea towel instead
swaddle the bird in its folds
and marvel at the stillness-
the lack of struggle
only a tiny heart throb
in the palm of your hand.
Once outside,and unwrapped,
you expect flurry
but instead
it sits dazed
startled perhaps
by the prospect of flight
and so you leave it there
and wish it God speed
and keep the cat in
for the foreseeable future
just in
case…
Copyright 2023 Cathy Leonard
❤️
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