She held her hand so still,
cupping the weightless gesture,
a thin layer of seed resting there,
the sun drifting across her knuckles.
The bird turned its head slowly,
its eye a polished bead of intent.
She didn’t move, froze in soft air,
statuesque against the garden hush.
I almost heard his small thoughts,
the arithmetic of seed and trust,
until he leapt into her open palm,
his feathers twitching like memory.
She smiled, not at him but herself,
as if she’d been deemed worthy,
her hand now a quiet altar, holding
a prayer she never thought was hers.