I open my hand and the hundred small birds of my heart flutter out, wings rumpled from the tight fist Iâ€™ve carried them in.
They fall to the ground before flying up, knowing something of soil and grief.
I canâ€™t shake this feeling now. Nights up, hearing the house move, the small birds flit restlessly about the room, dreaming.
With dawn the birds fly up to the rafters where I cannot reach them.