I saw two baby birds
misplaced by overconfidence
in the leaves, beaks opening expectantly
as my shadow eclipsed them.
I searched for a nest
but the trees were empty wombs;
fallen fruit fermenting in the grass
with the bones of those
who had not lived to see the snow.
A transformation ensued:
I became an uncertain god,
sitting upon an icy throne of indecision.
Mother Nature was fertile and unfortunate,
and I was unsure of what type of mercy to give.
A mother bird appeared
and I abdicated the throne.
From her beak spilled the remains
of someone else’s children
into the frantic mouths of her own.
The next day I returned,
my feet amongst bones and fruit.
The little birds had vanished,
their mother sitting in a branch nearby,
singing quietly to herself.
I do not know what it means, or if it matters at all.
I do not know if divinity is acceptance or action;
my ambiguity is a feathered creature afraid to spread its wings.
Perhaps another uncertain god is looking down on me.