Street Bird

Wiggles in the middle of the road,

a risky thing, bite-small and

curious, no

bigger than the melody

creeping from her throat.

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Pleases the lane-skin,

pacifically, barely

a pen stroke, she could fit

in a fist—little thing—

wings and all, even

the wind warbles louder.

‍

Sees her shadow, dancing

in the headlights breaking

over a not-quite-sunrise street.

‍

Hops once, doubtful.

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Looks,

‍

wonders at how harsh

that bloodless beast works, smooth

and wicked, grunting its tons of rubber

like an iceberg calving.

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Shivers, she is thoughtful,

no light, but those hungry eyes bounding

through the fog,

towards her chest,

heaving.

‍

Preens, magic thing, gives those

eyes a bigger target, her wings

stitched for holding, thimble

heart perched

‍

for cleaving. Precious.

Broken or breaking.

‍

Well, it’s just another morning, another ruby-

crusted minute rolling over since

‍

her life is just a street,

many-alleyed,

to walk through.

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