Not birds I know, dank-feathered, inky-eyed,
spinning in a ring until one breaks free,
flies in. And already I am out of bed

and on the path to my father’s room,
the whole house sleeping but for him, his old face
stunned in the white light webbed on the wall

and I say Dad, the bird in my room.
Each time he rises, my shadow on the carpet
follows where he passes,

watches in the doorway as he softly coos
and scoops the bird into his palms, strange trophy
thrown out into the night again.

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