On the verge of knowing
by Hannah Butcher-Stell
I miss the sounds of birds most I think—
the birds that stay for winter, who hum
quiet lullabies to their households.
I think about the ratio of sky to self.
My mother says, Get out of the house,
go for a walk, you’ll feel better.
Easy for her to say as she sits in the south
but still, I listen and visit
Rebecca and her children.
The children tell me there’s a bird
who slams into the living room window
every five minutes.
She’s been doing this for days and days.
See? They say. Her body leaves streaks on the glass.
They decide to tape three sheets
of paper to the window:
DEAR BIRD,
THERE IS A
WINDOW HERE
I tell them, Yes.
I tell them, It might be better for everyone
if you let her in.