The magic comes
in the form of gifts
I don’t know how to accept.
A blue jay clings to my office window,
a remarkable feather lays in my path,
the writing comes so easily.
I take them, apologize,
forget to show gratitude
until it’s probably too late.
Then the silence arrives.
No birds. No words.
I worry the magic is angry.
Right when hope fades,
the magic reappears.
The bird always returns.
Julie Barton 