At full tilt, air gleamed –
and a window-struck kingfisher,
snatched up, lay on my palm
still beating faintly.
Slowly, a tincture
of whatever consciousness is
infused its tremor, and
ram beak wide as scissors
all hurt loganberry inside,
it crept over my knuckle
and took my outstretched finger
in its wire foot-rings.
Cobalt wings, shutting on beige
body. Gold under-eye whiskers,
beak closing in recovery
it faced outward from me.
For maybe twenty minutes
we sat together, one on one,
as if staring back or
forward into prehistory.
