Under the snow
the only sound
is the drip from
my frail window, beneath
the cool air and grey clouds,
with the one thing that does not
change, my scarf and its fold
around my neck.

I am convinced
that I’ve never understood color
or whiteness or why I thought
of my death the night before
my tenth birthday.

I am a simple little bird
brown and white like a sparrow
common enough that no one
will notice the nails
I’ve stomped into my shoes,
this strange dance of wild hair
molting into feathers and the echo
of wings like ruffled skirts flapping over the river.

Previously published in Rogue Agent