Every day I walk under her:
crowning the low lamppost,
draped in feathers--her white breast,
her cloak of cream and gold.
Once I saw her strike as straight as light
into the
boggy ditch and rise again
as quick, her fist full of some small life.
On bright days she opens
back her shoulders, leans
upward on her barely open wings.
The metal squeals as she closes
her immaculate hands.
