Clinging on
I hadn’t even seen him
as I leaned into the shed,
put my hand on the lintel.
Then, a scratch on my hand
so feint I almost didn’t feel it
but I looked up.
A tiny fledgling swallow
a few weeks old
so light
but already slicked with indigo
a red smudge on his chin,
perched there
tiny claws like fine wires
cleaved to my finger.
He looked at me
I looked back at him.
A small silent moment
that early morning
in this big noisy bloody world.
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