"Wings." Image by TJ Gehling via Creative Commons/Flickr.
Heaven’s lips! I dreamed of a page in a book containing the word bird and I entered bird. Bird grinds on, grinds on, thrusting against black. Thrusting wings, thrusting again, hard banks slap against it either side, that bird was exhausted. Still, beating, working its way and below in dark woods small creatures leap. Rip at food with scrawny lips. Lips at night. Nothing guiding it, bird beats on, night wetness on it. A lion looks up, Smell of adolescence in these creatures, this ordinary night for them. Astonishment inside me like a separate person, sweat-soaked. How to grip. For some people a bird sings, feathers shine. I just get this this. --Anne Carson (2005)