Little Old Bird Lady


By Salvatore Difalco

Uncanny pewter light, late winter afternoon: snow falls. Snow falls and the ambience follows suit, tiny tinkling bells, crystalline swells, a ruby glow from someone’s hearth.

“You’d best be leaving, lady, blizzard blowing in.”

“I can wait. I like the white.”

“You won’t make it through the night in those feathers.”

No sign she understands. Later, she blasphemes the gusts.

Such are the imprecations of conviction. We spin the globe but often return to the middle space, where we exist, side by side, with ideas about flying south next winter or building a warmer nest.


6 thoughts on “Little Old Bird Lady

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s