Not long enough to sing
let alone build a nest,
the titmouse stood
in her outstretched hand
and ate the seeds
she had been holding
for so long and so still
her arm ached
as if plunged in ice.

Consider the calculations
the bird completed,
a balancing of potential
threat up against hunger,
or maybe not hunger
but pleasure—seeds
far better than anything
the woods might provide,
the girl like a tree but not.

Maybe not a miracle then
but the forging of a trust
over instinct, trust being
the leading cause of death
for cautionary tales
of any species. What’s a miracle,
though, but a moment
when the world works
well and unusually?

It was as if she held
that moment in her palm,
lifting it, sustaining it,
the seconds slowed to time
enough to be grateful
for kindness itself
before the wings
rose from her open hand
like a spell she’d cast.

 

 

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James Davis May is the recipient of the 2026–27 Amy Lowell Poetry Travelling Scholarship. His third book of poems, My Lost Saints (Louisiana State), will be published in the spring of 2027.

 

 

Photo by Vince Veras on Unsplash