* * *
the virus rested
like dew on the grass
but they still came back
arrogant, red-breasted
thin and then fat, as if
they didn’t know better
spotting the maples
like feathered damp
I watched them drop
and bother the straw
to build their nests
from a sterile distance
safe behind glass
when they flew
my finger followed
their path, all
to safe landings
like so many souls
with open throats
each singing
from its branch
* * *
Monica Crumback lives and writes in Michigan. Her work has been published in numerous places around the web and in print.
featured photo by Lukas Hartmann
