the young bird is barely here: brittle leaves & debris
born in Domenica's palm; one leg, a twig and thin foot
broken at the joint, the other crushed.
& though the body is bitten through, its ombre blue
is still intact along the wingtip, like pinnate
day-sky turning to dusk:
it is this, the lightest bit of being
she loves without reason, mourned all the more
because of its fragility and how it took
its last lung of breath.