sitting on my windowpane. I strain
to see him. He can fly
into that azure sky. But I can’t
touch his feathers. He only sits
as a stick.

Yesterday’s a bird
that flew. He was there! I saw
him square as my window. Now
he’s a billow.

Today’s a bird
in my hand. He takes
as I give him. And if I’m
sure of myself –
sure as the snow melts
on the late spring grass
I’ll know if I should
steady my hand
or wave my arm
like a flag at half-staff