That morning
The little bird
Flew down our chimney
We stood still
Hushed and waiting
No sound
But the rustling of flustered wings
And my child muffling a scream
No movement
But the swirling of six month old soot
From her feathers like tiny contrails
In the morning light
She landed on the sill of our closed window
And stilled
Like us
Her body wound tight and vibrating
Staccato twitching, watching
Us, the window, us, the window
And then
She began rubbing her tiny feathered skull
With a fluid motion across the thick glass
Back and forth
Back and forth
Back and forth
Accompanied by a soft clicking
Each time she changed direction
Her beak quietly tapping
A Morse Code
An S.O.S to save her soul
And so You did
Slowly You made Your way to her side
She trusted You, she stayed
I swear I saw Your reflection in her ebony eye
You
Gently
Reached
And inched
That
Old
Window
Open
There was a pause, a moment
Of our collective breath being held
She looked around with a tilted head
As if confused by her own stillness
She took it all in
And then she leapt
That morning
Felt like
Magic
-a.r.
This is a repost of a previous poem, and an actual event.
Some days it feels as if that morning is still happening.
Image found here: 
