I found a porcelain bird
at the thrift shop—
white, chipped at the beak,
painted eyes gone soft with wear.
I bought it for a dollar
and placed it on my windowsill,
where it watches the world
and forgets how to fly.
When the sun dips low
and the light stretches thin,
I swear I see it stir,
quivering against the wind.
I sit on the floor,
knees pulled to my chest,
and pretend I have wings too.
I think of the places
I’ll never go—
open skies,
open hands.
Sometimes, I hum a song,
soft and low,
and the bird hums back,
its hollow chest
full of dust and dreams.