A black bird sits on my windowsill.

Mocking me with its unlaboured loyalty to the present moment.

I wonder if it remembers all the valleys it flew over, all the food it pecked on.

I yearn to know all the birds it must have known.

What it felt like to feel the wind under its wings for the first time?

Does it remember?

A black bird stands behind the windowsill.

Mocked and dawned with the task of laboured living.