Angel Zapata

Today, I am a small bird.
No specific brood of bird,
rather a subtle blush of wild feathers.

I have no desire to manipulate air,
counsel a pale audience of clouds,
kiss cypress, embrace oak.

I need an invisible nest, a retreat
for flesh to warm against twig;
a hint of blue from brown to bark.

I ache to be blameless,
to exist in night as though I were
a moon assigned to Earth,

as though I were a forgotten
window, open wide enough
to squeeze a feather through.