A bird lands on my garden.
I know thanks
to the discontinuous
pixel movements of its brief
leaps on the grass.
It rummages for supplies
with its childlike beak
between the tiny leaves
on the ground.
The grass, I tell myself, the grass
is where the food is hidden.
I'm about to decipher this mystery,
it’s like the poetic breathe that precedes it.
Always something violent, the breeze
blowing stronger, or the very sensitivity
of the hatchling
sensing my garden is: a non-garden
a reduced green apparition
in the courtyard of the house.
When just like that, the bird flaps,
flits― drawing pixels like it arrived,
Then the house faces
the reality of its troublesome stay.
The common every day trappings
as if its ephemeral presence
provided them with fleeting certainties
and endless senses.