What to do when a bird gets stuck in your house

snow bird

Earlier today, I stumbled across the question: can you define this shade of pearl?  There were hundreds of responses to the original post, each competing for the chance to win some kind of blog-promoting trinket, weaving together the poetic (sleeping dove) to the ironic (disturbed domestic).  I couldn’t come up with words, though; only silence.  Only soft; snow on a skylight. 

Ah, the perils of December.  We moved; no more crossing guard, no more drunks trying to rip our back bumper license plate off the car.  Though still firmly urban, the shade of pearl that surrounds our new abode is striking in its difference.  I feel that we have grown up now; I feel like the pauses between our sentences are laced together with a slate-like permanence.  We once heard the cat purring in the other room.  We had no idea that our cat could even purr.

A garage, too; masking our inability to fully unpack.  Even as unpacking, in and of itself, is therapeutic.  Whisking away a slim volume here, an extra wooden spoon there.  I once fit everything I owned into a bag I carried on my shoulders.  Every once in a while, I look up at that skylight and squint at the blurry sky on the other side.  Gravity works differently now, edging towards another decade.  We are complicit.  We are okay with one another, the cliff jumping wars abated, the ground enjoying the feel of my feet and my body happy for the respite from falling.