Bird Seed

by Heather Nicholson

I was in the living room when you flew into the picture window and startled at first, your unknowing kamikaze dive into my life denied by a thick pane of glass. 

You flew away. I ran to you anyway, grandma on my heels. 

I was ten. By then I understood life and, more importantly, I understood what it meant to die at the hands of an illusion. You sought the mirage—the lie reflecting back the natural world.

I found you in the peony bush, their blooms blush and thick and shading the fresh seed pouring from your burst chest.

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