Day 1,051

A bird has gotten caught
in the netting you’ve used
to divide one part of this tent
from another. Old fishnet,
something you threw quickly
in a bag before yet another
displacement, thinking it might
sometime be useful. Now it serves
to separate the part of the tent
where you all sleep
from the part
where you write. Symbolic? But
helpful. And now a bird — a small
bird, young, dark — has gotten trapped
in it toward the top. With each attempt he makes
to escape, he entangles himself more. His wings strain
to flutter but can’t. He squawks, cries, beak grasping the netting
as though he could bite himself free. You stand. Watch.
Wait for the moment that doesn’t come, when the net
might part, unfold, set him loose.
At last you can’t bear it. Brother,
you whisper to him. Fellow victim
of this genocide. Captured here like ourselves. Like our children.
You pick up a knife. Climb up onto
an overturned bucket. Slit the net
where the bird is held hostage. It droops
to the floor of the tent. The bird
hesitates a moment.
Opens his wings. Flies out,
into the open sky.