|There is a bird
that has perched itself on a branch
that waves outside my window.
Its small black feet
hang on to the wood
like a trapeze artist
to their rope.
It jumps a little,
daring itself to go higher each time.
And when gravity brings it back down,
a small lump of snow falls, too.
Enough to cover the bird's blue back.
There comes a point in my observation
when I can no longer see-
the glass is fogged with my breath,
hiding the bird and part of the branch from sight.
So I stop breathing.
There's a high pitched whine coming from the kettle in my kitchen.
It's disruptive; I go to stop it.
When I return to my sill, the bird has gone-