Wings shut and feet curled inward

you are warm still

and limp

giving your weight to me

(I thought you’d weigh nothing)

my hand a trough,

a cradle

rocked to a stillness

half closing half opening

around you

the pool of your small body

Into the crook of my forefinger

your head drops

loose like a marble

your feathers filling my palm

my palm growing hot

till I see it for myself

the world you were leaving behind

brighter than ever in the glass

the forest shining so you rushed towards it

with an extra thrust of the blood to your heart

which did not stop when you dropped

your body to the ground

but opened and flew on—         O the trees—

                    O all the air                   between the leaves—