A bird buried alive in dark earth, beak open to sing silence. Wings pinioned, eyes blank wide. Claws a superfluous anchor, digging in deep. Our home built on hers. Could crumble in, sometimes does. We move carefully, fear our vibration. Eyes blank wide on us.
We dug her in with small red and yellow spades and wait to be forgiven. Sometimes it is months before the earth is breached. We hold our breath, waiting, waiting. We wait.
Returned, she lives pulled back. Returned, she is called back. And not until we are grown do we know how she fears the dark’s descent, the dark descent, her descent into dark immobility. And that it was not us. We were, after all, just children who lived in her beautiful shadow.