Joseph A. W. Quintela

You turn to the window,

and turn into a wren. Flight-bound for death, the wings counting syllables before the snap, of neck, of tongue, of words poured onto panes of glass so that the eye follows through them, plunging into the street. I’d throw the window open if I could, but that would take a minute, and you’ve no time for minutes, only questions, beak-pointed, screech-pitched, questions slyly proffered, for the one who’ll tend your nest.