Her wings brush the pane
as if she knows by instinct
that confinement is a dream
from which wings may awaken.
She flutters up and down the pane
searching for answers in the light
as if a mere entreaty
could shatter an invisible wall.
Now she weaves the huddled space
and slams the pane till her beak turns red.
She cries out in fear against this
encroaching fate, this finite doom.
I tug and pull and yank until
the old window opens with
an ancient shriek, and she is free, while
my heart flutters madly in its prison.
- That Ghost on the Tree
- Black Pearls