a bird in the hand-- she began

I said, don't even finish
she said it’s better than the altnerative

what if assumptions lie? I asked
still, she said, sucked down her fag to the filter
and tossed it out.

the clock cried out in the courtyard,
I turned and moved away
summer nights electric then--a current
moving through me as the birds called
from unknown treetops and she called
after my footsteps, what have you decided?

it's not about decision, I replied
it's chance, not choice
and the spirit, prepared, standing on the curb,
bags packed early--or even spirits
that stumble out of bed five minutes after
the appointment's start, mussed hair and cold sweat trickling
(sometimes, a smooth smile and not a trickle of doubt)

yeah, I held a bird in my hand once
stunned by a windshield, eyes bright and black
I held a bird another time, the cat dragged in, half alive
I picked them both up, the cat more roughly

and shuddered, tossed both outside
and washed my hands of it
what did you do to the cat? she asked
lighting another
(she cupped her hands against the wind,
and the voice came disembodied)
nothing, I replied, it's in her nature, after all

no, I said,
I don't prefer a bird in my hands
it only spells defeat
I'd rather two in the bush
three on a wire
four in flight
five taking to the sky in migration