Woman in the window and me, a bird outside in a skinny tree. I watch her leading her flightless life and waving her fingered wings at the man. His beak-lips are mouthing words that are making her cry. If she were like me, she could walk through the door, sail boat-less on an ocean of air. There, she would find the heart she lost, the cost of love. If I were like her, I could learn to be happy with small bits of pulled worm from the ground, learn to be grateful for the tiniest words rustling like leaves about to fall.