What is it about birds trapped in your kitchen
(by the
agency of, in this case, your cat,)
that when you kindly oblige-
lock 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 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 at 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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