No Bird Flies in a Storm
Try to hold still in a downpour, to stop shoulders and sternum from scrunching into your spine. The pelting spittle of cold anger gets to make everyone shorter, smaller. Never asks for permission. Each drop an icy NO over and over until blued skin screams its own shivering retreat.
Birds are smart; birds know to fly for cover, they hide in meshed tree limbs, under eaves and leaves. They’ve the sense to listen to their little brains and hunker down, await the storm’s passage. Avoid the rain.
How I wish for the sense of a bird. Perhaps I’d not be here again in emerge, waiting for the x-rays of my bruised and battered face, deflecting the kind nurse who sighs while slipping a hand around my back, asking ‘How did it happen?’, while I shrink and complain how steep my stairs, how Tony found me, brought me in. He waits, perched in the car. He’ll drive home quickly, not saying a word, and I’ll watch, listening for the next storm to roll in.
Crystal Snoddon is addicted to words, and enjoys both reading and writing to make some sense of the world. Previous and forthcoming publications of poetry can be found at SickLit Magazine, Rat's Ass Review, The Quarterday Review, Poetry Breakfast among others.
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