Rain-drip

Megan McLaughlin

I wondered what he could be thinking

–rain-drip bluebird

whose down sinking drops 

have colored 

a cold, bone-deep navy.

Watching from the window now,

as his thin bough gravely dips 

–chill soaked 

where open buds

should be,

where sun should 

settle sweetly,

where frosted filigree has made its home

in place of spring–

I want to ask

do you still sing?

Does such ice plant bitterness 

here,

the hollow space between 

song

and wing?

Perhaps I’d know

if not for the glass

between us. 

The bluebird ruffles his feathers

and trusts the frigid air to catch him. 

The thin bough rises. 

I stare at the empty space he’s left.