RESURRECTION

Lax and limp-legged in my palm. Downedbreast heaving as though half air.Only one tail feather remainsthe others laid like petals on the rug.Outside, swollen bees sipfrom the antlered heartsof poppies. The cradle of bird-cherrydrips with fruit and song.I place the fledglingin the lee of the sheda shaded gap choked with ivy.It stares, legs splayedbeak agape at this thin place.I ask the unquenched skyto lift its bauble-body.Returning to the empty pagemy hand aches for its song.There is no bird at dusk.I imagine it in flight,pitching and rolling,that sole feather a queered rudder.Its open beak spilling no simple trillof territory or joy, but a single noteof knowing freedom.