A Bird in the Hand

One summer Saturday morning as I dozed,

the cat jumped onto the window sill by my bed,

punched a paw through the louvered panel

of the air conditioner, and pulled a little grey vireo

into the room.

She flapped and chirped as the cat bit and drew blood. 

I jumped out of bed, took hold of her with a shout.

I cradled her in my hands, this soft and weightless thing,

The absence of its weight seemed impossible,

But I could feel

a furiously pounding heartbeat, vibrating within,

She was still and motionless, feigning death or

gathering her strength for a burst of energy to escape. 

When I brought her outside, eyes registered sky

and relief from the enclosure of human geometry

and the curled claw and teeth of cat

She burst out of my hand in a riot of movement and feathers

Flying true to the safety of nearby trees.