Shift

The kitchen floor is colder than I remember.

I’m sitting with my back against the stove

watching the air turn the color of a bruise.

Then the first one starts—

a sharp, mechanical needle of sound

from the overgrown boxwood by the fence.

It isn't a song. It’s a demand.

They wake up so easily,

shaking the night off their feathers

while I’m still heavy with the things I didn't say

and the coffee has gone thick and flat in the mug.