5.  Writing and care is at night

The evening is a quilt over the desk, too hot to get out from under. Under the honeyed breath of expectation lurks something like admiration, a belief in goodness. Goodness knows the weight of this meat that is also a child. Child of raw flesh, violent breather, snuggle into me!

Me being a person named this name, even during winter. When shed feathers litter their straw. Fancy bed. My birds bed down among tunneling field mice and tree-sleeping squirrels and subterranean colonies of fungi biding their time before erupting in spore-clouds. Little birds. Birds being in part about beauty and in part about what they endure.

Endure her violent cries just once or twice while she is supposed to be sleeping and she will learn. Or respond to each noise automatically so she also may learn. Learn to let her teach herself to speak, to lie down to sleep in slightly cold sheets, to be one witness. Birds have wings whether or not they have flight, whether they want that. Meaty obligation to perform whatever gorgeous action one potentially can.