I
The end of a crane against gray clouds, a tassel dangling in the wind. I remember the blue heron at the edge of the pond, leg bent against the fog, and I suddenly know why they are called cranes.

II
In between classes, on the first day of the year that I have worn short sleeves outside comfortably, I see a cardinal perched in a tree and I wonder, who watches over me today?

III
I leave my house for the first time in two days. As I get in my car, I notice the body of a robin dangling from a bare branch in my front yard, its neck and beak caught, capturing the bird’s descent. Locking, sealing, the moment behind the depths of my own brown eyes. I drive away.

IV
There are trees blossoming everywhere; pink, white, yellow, red. The fields are lush and green once more; and the air is warm and humid, the water lingering in the air from the previous night’s downpour. A small, shiny bird perches on a telephone wire. It is spring, even so.

V
114 new cases. 7 deaths. I glance out the window, not wanting to believe it, and spot a darkly colored bird grooming itself in the rain. Perched on a branch in the same tree that led a robin to its end. In the emptiness and gray, it still checks for observers and the green eyes of my cat, waiting at the window.

VI 
The cardinal visits every afternoon, always catching me off guard. I see his brothers fluttering together at the top of a distant fence, stained with rainwater. Bittersweet. The trees stretch towards the atmosphere and the grass sighs once more.