alarm

I wake up to the birds, chirpping in their little ways from some unknowable place in the trees.

—

I wake up to the bird at the feeder outside my window. It’s wings flap like endlessly flipping pages in a book. Like an automatic card shuffler. It breaks apart the seeds and you can hear its beak working away. I shift to try and see it and my small motions startle it. Again, I hear its wings and a faint trace of brown or grey or red.

—

I wake up to the birds, crying and screeching. Are we all here? They ask. I want to raise my voice with them. I want to declare myself a member of their flock. I didn’t die in the night, I want to say, I am here.

birds

I used to think that I would turn into a bird one day.