By Elizabeth Smith
Two magpies glide to the tree
Outside our bedroom window.
“Look!” I whisper to my daughter,
Who looks too much like me
Today: tangled hair, still
In a nightgown, wet nose.
She raises her feverish head
From our pillow, and the magpies
Hop along the branch, screech
To each other, then
Flutter off.
“Birdies!” she says. “Come back tomorrow?”
