There are birds larger than us. I know that.
There is a bird in the bedroom much larger than the bed.
There is a photograph of a dead bird somewhere. 
      I can’t remember.
There is a wingspan that would put us all in the shadows.

There is the birdcall I must anticipate each night.
There are feathers everywhere.
Everywhere you walk there are feathers, you can try
to hop over and between them but then
you look like a bird. You are too small to be one.

You look like a tiny one-winged bird.
If you are your mother will come and kill you.
If you are not you will probably beat yourself to death.

But what matters is that every room in the house is filled,
is filled with the cry of the eagle.
Exterminating the eagles is now all but impossible
for the house would fall down without them.

There is a photograph of a dead bird somewhere.
Everywhere you walk there are feathers.
You look like a tiny one-winged bird.
There is the birdcall. There is the wingspan.