House Finch Marcia Ratliff I’ve been avoiding it for days— the nest in the pink forget-me-not because the mother has stopped coming to her baby bird. Finally climbing on the railing to water the plant I am witness to the graphite body wrapped in ridges that would have been feathers, curled in the bottom of the nest’s deep swirl. Around the grave, the flowers dally. I tilt the watering can like a kiss into the far side of the pot. It had bright eyes, this infant, and looked out from our porch into the world like I do most summer nights, and as if the glimpses were enough Stopped every kind of seeing.
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