Our love for birds is conceptual.
Birds are majesty mangled in a biohazard.
For us, the trappings of The Church weigh long and heavy
While freedom seems easy for the winged diseases.

The other night
We planned to go out for a wine special at a cafe
When we found a pigeon stuck under the hood of the car,
Pressed up against the radiator.
She screamed and laughed and gripped my arm and said
“We have to get it out or it'll fry!”

So in the shadow-casting light of our screened-in porch,
She strapped a bike helmet to my face like a hockey goalie
To protect my eyes from getting pecked out.
Oven mitts, a jacket, and pants tucked into my boots.
Protections from the bird flu.

With my arms stretched out as far as they go,
I popped the hood
And released the bird
And ran back to the porch
And she yelped and cackled
As it rose up
Flapping furiously, free and frantic and faithfully gone into the warmest night we’ve had in months.

Just today
I encountered her, face to the window:
“A cardinal!”
Which is a bird (her favorite bird)
I only ever see walking on the ground, not flying.
Clean, balanced, thoughtful of each step.
I could have held it in the cup of my hands, put it right up to my face, and felt no fear at all.