Almost
February 11, 2021

at the top,
running upstairs,
I hear a quail,

turn my head
to glimpse the bird
though the window

but fall — nearly,
a sudden arc
backwards

into space
but grasp,
to grace

hold, hold
to the rail, heart
startles

fifteen steps down
I gasp to it — 
fly back to me.


Photo by Jose Luis Pita Rioz on Unsplash

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