I begin in happenstance. From whence come here and why, into arms that do not hold me, as sky in an egg births a bird and flees—I don’t remember my own flight. What blood, what heat seeking sameness. Nests untether moss by twig—lesser whitethroat, dark-eyed junco, linnet, twite—yet heaven finds itself half-hatchling here. I’d not be caught by desire’s wound wire, were it not my soul seeking its own death. Something closes, white wings over frail brood—a forgetting of night’s shut sky. It should be easy—grey partridge, quail, godwit, cuckoo—to renounce what lunacy craves.