Knock, Knock: The Bird at the Window

Each night, after the stars flickered awake,

a small bird with bright blue feathers

tapped gently at the glass of a baby’s room.

Knock, knock—

not loud, not harsh,

only a soft rhythm of longing.

It was a solitary bird,

misunderstood by the world.

While others flew in flocks,

he remained alone,

carrying something inside

that song could not explain.

Through the lit window, he saw warmth:

a family gathered in yellow light,

a baby sleeping in the crib,

a girl with wide, curious eyes.

She was not afraid.

She did not chase him away.

She simply watched.

And he came.

Night after night.

Knock, knock.

Her smile.

His tilted head.

For a few moments

they were companions in silence.

But the parents saw danger.

Curtains were drawn,

animal control called,

and he fled to the tallest tree, hiding beneath the moon.

That night she waited.

He did not come.

Her hand pressed to the glass—

“Little bird, where are you?”

Years passed.

The girl grew.

Curtains changed, colours shifted, but never again that waiting gaze returned.

One spring afternoon, he perched on a wire.

Below, a woman pushed a pram.

He called. She looked up.

Something lit her face—

a memory, perhaps,

or only the sun.

He tapped once on the post.

Knock. She smiled.

And he felt again

the quiet warmth of being understood.