It's the tail end of April, when
the greens begin to deepen
and another salvo of white
dogwood flowers
discharges on Chicago.
Inside, I fidget or pace
or press a warm forehead
to cool rectangles of glass—
then stand back again
and watch the small oval
of condensation
wane and disappear,
giving way to distant
asymmetric skylines
gleaming in limpid daylight.
How I'd like to to fling
this window wide open
and set free on the breeze
that small wounded bird
who's been trapped here all winter.
