Wednesday, June 06, 2007

The Wait



A
starling
flew through air
where window was
when it was closed, clung
frantic to the molding
near the ceiling, eyes insane,
lit in the dull glint of a black
Sunday morning suit. Out in the sun
bells rang, counterpoint to claw and feather
raking glass as he battered himself
between window and mirror, air
suddenly structure, until,
at last, he stunned himself.
Licked clean again, cat
curled herself on
the sunny
sill and
slept.

1 comment:

Minx said...

There is something beautifully peaceful about a sleeping cat, regardless of the murdering, psychotic soul that lies within.