Gray, sparrow-sized, he roosts next to my heart; and whenever I see you, the poor bird tries to fly out of my chest. He never learns. He can't escape. His wings thrash in alarm -- what's wrong with me? why can't I fly away? Neither the bird nor I can remember how he got this way. When did you ever come close enough to put salt on his tail?
Copyright 1994 Edward Gaillard. All rights reserved.