Bess Jones

It does not fly.

It is the branch when the bird alights
shaking the leaves to wake the wind.
It comes right in.

It is a cool floor on the feet,
warm hands on a mug.
It sighs.
It is lunch notes, love notes
with a Mounds bar for a snack,
a loose strand and a shirt tail tucked.
It runs along snow-crusted trails,
cold cheeks red;
sees a rabbit in the sky.

It is not a bird,
but hears the feather
that falls on the frost.

It bends its head
over four herring plates,
says “thank you for this food, Amen.”
It is the math problem solved,
sings Taylor Swift
behind the purple door.
It sits on the red couch,
Sinatra on the record.
It hums, it purrs.

It does not fly.

It is Canis Major with Sirius at its best,
a hole-punch in the raven sky,
cast upon a frozen nest.
It closes its eyes.