“Hope” is the thing with feathers. Emily Dickinson
In the kitchen on a warm afternoon, the breeze blowing in an open door. An unexpected movement near the window. That’s not right.
A flutter and chirp. Distress. Small bird inside the house.
The family dog sleeps in the next room so I rise quietly. A black-capped chickadee stares up at me from the sill. Crooning in the face of terror, I try to catch it. Frantic fluttering and shed feathers. Still not right.
Softly, I open two windows, stand back and hope.
YES! It flies out into its world. That is right.
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