All Soft Feathers and Flight Muscles

In the intermediate zone between heaven and hell opinions and complaints, after much moaning, may come to be held in common. The way a flock of chickadees moves through the woods, cheerfully, each bird taking a turn on point. All meaning must be found, here, in the middle zone, notwithstanding fears that rend and own us, of dying unknown. A Spring day the flycatcher broke its neck against our bay window nothing changed. I buried it, somewhat reverently, in a shallow grave. No differently, really, than I would a man who'd died suddenly. Who'd left footprints in the snow which became wild lily-of-the-valley, running pine then snow again in time. After long enmity Sally hugs me, asks if I've been happy. A moment in a year. February, the light is long, more direct. It's meaningless, repetitious but held dear.