A flock of starlings flew over
the house this morning, their slick feathers black
as your hair draped across the pillow in sleep.
I wanted to pull you out of bed
to stand barefoot on the wooden porch,
but your breathing stopped me –
slow and steady,
your lungs one corner of the sky.
Part of me moved into the kitchen,
quietly cracking and scrambling eggs.
Part of me stayed on the green carpet,
understanding why trees grow roots,
how they stand, heavy and breathless.