Rescued from a cat, I cradle you helplessly
in the palm of my hand.
You are frail like crushed paper,
contain the mysteries of sky enfolded in
feathers, beak, and soft, lidded-eye.
You breath sounds like rust forming on clouds,
and you shudder under your scruffy
coat and I think you won’t make it. But
later, you are a twitching reflex of
remembered purpose. You make known
your indignation at being
captive and –
with some trepidation–
I release you into the garden whereupon
you vibrate your thanks, lightly
against my palm, and it feels like you’re dancing
then in a flash you are gone.
You’ve morphed into the night,
the noise from your wings the only
sign you were here.
© 2011. Sarah Horne. All Rights Reserved.
Spiral Paper Moon 