Jagged Beaks

by Mary Birnbaum

The first inhale of dawn
alerts us to the hoarse
scraping of the sky, the slight
sandpaper scouring away
of a little faith, a little peace—

We who still sweat, spiraled
in our clouds, eyes still grayed—
hope we will be spared
the grumbling race on twiggy
wheels, the engines’ panic—

Atavistic we palm the mist
at the window, hoarding our safe
close shadow. We peer into
the uncertain freedom that once
unfolded monstrous birds

with narrow wings and jagged beaks
like storm waves, like the bite
of mountain range and clouds
nesting hailstones. We want
to believe the wind loves us,

the light reaches us beauty—
but we know what soars,
enormous, also hungers.
We hear the groan, the dawn,
vibrating more faintly

into the belly of city.
Small song birds are whistling
the all clear.

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Photo cover by Julia Dragan