She tells me there is no escape from this. It’s in my genes.
And while she goes on about brains and chemistry and the natural proclivity of species to procreate, I wonder…
Do birds redefine the space between wings to accommodate a change in flight so late in the season?
Do bees make sacrifices in the general order of things to find the sweetness of honey even as the days shorten?
Does the Monarch wax nostalgic for past lives, when it was everything — and nothing — but this?
The Word (Woman Bird), Max Ernst