roosts in my ear canal. I hear his soft call,
feel the pin-prick of his claws, airy softness
of black, grey and buff feathers. He perches
on the platform at the front of my ear, launches
into my living-room, soundless flight.
He glides, wings wide. I feel the small breath
of his passing on my face. He lands
on my outstretched palm. I close my fist,
feel the crunch as air-filled bones crumble,
tiny beak a splinter in the pad of my index finger.
I open my hand, brush the dust and fragments
into my bin, the smear of gold from his crushed eyes.
He is mine. I can do what I want; so small,
no-one will ever miss him.