Ephemeral Hatchling

Ephemeral Hatchling

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 wasteland

a fiction

a reduced green apparition

in the courtyard of the house.

When just like that, the bird flaps,

flits― drawing pixels like it arrived,

and disappears.

Then the house faces

the reality of its troublesome stay.

The common every day trappings

feel enlightened

as if its ephemeral presence

provided them with fleeting certainties

and endless senses.