Gray Catbird

Before the sun touched the marsh, someone stretched threads between the branches and covered them with water. Nothing was planned. The night worked alone, patiently, with what it had: moisture, silk, silence. You sing within this lace. Your beak opens to utter a phrase borrowed from others—a meow, a squeak, a flute note—and the cold air carries it to the droplets that tremble ever so slightly. Behind you, the web holds onto everything the light has not yet undone. Soon the warmth will come, the dew will disappear, and the spider will resume its work. For now, your song and this trickle of water are one: fragile, precise, free.