by Grace Brooks
In the yard a small body gathers dusk,
beak ticking at stones
as if they were locked doors.
No one names her,
yet her shadow carries a crown,
and in the hush between clucks
the air ripples like water touched by stars.
What seems foolish—
the shuffle, the dusted skirt,
the half-winged struggle of ascent—
is only the earth rehearsing
its oldest gesture of escape.
I keep watching:
she scratches a circle into soil,
steps inside it like a ritual,
as if the ground itself
might split and release her.
Nothing happens,
and still—
the feathers lean toward heaven,
their frayed edges whispering
something about flight,
something about forever.
Grace Brooks is a writer, strategist, and professional overthinker of life’s fine print. Keep up with her day-today magic at @GracieLBrooks.