My dog approaches, a baby bird clutched in her mouth.
Impossible to tell
if it drowned in its nest in the gutter during the rainstorm last night
or if it fell out and she found it alive.
I dreamt this, or something like it: my husband and I parents
to a newborn redbird. A hawk swooped in a community
of birds surrounded the predator drove it from the nest
in a cloud of frantic wings. I only watched
enamored by the hawk’s desire to eat something so small so new.
I didn’t join in stopping it.
When the hawk was gone, I turned to my newborn lying wrapped in a blanket
nestled in a crib high up.
I wished I had never had a child.
To save her from choking on the hollow bones,
I try to take the dead hatchling from my dog.
Drop it, I demand
and hear the crunch of her keeping it from me.