The Broken Bird

The way you swoop and sing is mesmerizing. I spend hours in the shade of the tree where you have your nest with seed in my outstretched hand, enticing you out of the sky to be with me. My heart hammers when you finally land. My hand closes. You’re so soft. Your claws and beak, made for branches and seeds, inflict no pain. Your bones, so light to escape things that might break you, pop with ease when I squeeze. It’s over too quickly. I don’t know what’s next. Squirrels are harder to catch, but dogs are harder to break.