February Morning

The breeze pushed open the balcony door.
A ribbon of steam above my mug
spiraled toward the first light,
scenting the room.

Outside, hurried engines growled.
Finches and sparrows clamored in trees,
their small throats threading the air
in twittering chorus.

I wondered—
How could such tiny bodies
outvoice the neighborhood?

A ruby-crowned kinglet
landed on my balcony rail,
skipping from foot to foot,
tiny claws ticking against the metal.

He tilted his head,
round black eyes fixed on mine.
Feathers on his throat trembled,
and his song spilled inside,
warm as coffee against my lips.

I couldn’t understand any of it.
Yet he sang to me.

My book—
a world of silent pages,
slipped into my lap.

And then—
his wings opened,
and he swooped beneath
the balcony’s edge.

I washed my mug,
soap bubbles skimming
over my hands—
and the bird’s song
still warbled in my ears.

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