I wake; I feed the birds. I like the winter; I take the fire coals inside to the home of the stranger I have grown; I do not feel like home today. I do not speak the language of the love that we used to use. I talk; nobody is there. I feed the birds; sometimes they listen; sometimes they are of no interest; the sky wins. I watch the birds move the sky; they are closer to you than I can be. I think in birds; if the skies were a bird, there would be feathers; like clouds, falling. If it was a bird; the tree; it would make branches into multiple wings and fly; taking faster spirit than the soul that drowns the roots. If I could be it; a bird; I’d take me; the centre of me would be a river and my feathers would drown; I’d take your hand and cross the skies; together. I have no flight; on the ground I hide; inside our living room with the fire that burns the heat and the curtains that close the world. There is nothing; a bucket sits by me; it had the fire coals inside; it collects my tears as they pour and drown my body; the curtains are closed.