a bird's body in a hand.
That same hand on my back.
And my question
of whether I want it there,
more than anything else I want
in that moment in the sun on the hill–
or not.
How does it feel?
The bird slept until the hand
got tired and started drooping.
The bird still slept.
Head deep, nestled into feathers.
Eyes far off, into the soft,
downy place of its own heartbeat.
The bird flew–
the hand rose up, instinctively
without the tiny weight in its palm
to keep it down.