Washing dishes by hand, I hear birdsong,
scrambling against siding, clambering into the attic
where the fluttering dies.
Amusement tickles my chest as I wonder if it’s the fertile bird from last year
or its offspring planning a family in the squatter’s nest above me.
What can I do?
I was the fool who forgot to replace the screen in time.
And how can I tell the bird that home is not where you find it?