Morning shimmers after yesterday’s rain. A shallow green haze blows around the trees and vapor lifts from the roadtops. Swings hang with a sway, hips lifting over small puffs of air. And this: birds sing new songs. Melodies clear like fresh flower water running into glass vases. Woody green stems lined up and down with air bubbles. Birdsong swings in the damp morning air. A quick pulse beats at the throat of each bird. Those birds. The fragility of their arrangement is a surprise to them. We know the fragility of ours, and it is this that makes us press the pulse at each bird’s throat. We are not moved by the trembling in our hands, each bird smaller than a pear. We snap birds in two along their cloven breasts and toss the halves onto piles of eggshells. We lay our fingers at our throats each day, all day and my ankles, I tell you, they will snap easier than scored crackers. I swing from my shoulders like an empty birdcage hung by an open window.