Moths fly into our bathroom and hover,
splay unremarkable wings against the tiles:
pencil shavings, edges
of ragged paper. Woodchip beige,
they seem the same but here

among the plum trees and the pears,
yellow underwings appear, dappled carpets,
common marbled and green, garden
and spruce carpets; a shuttle-shaped dart, then
lured by the over-bright light they disappear

down the slopes of the moth trap.
By chance I saw the one
that hid in the lid of an egg box,
which seemed neither insect nor moth

but a bird
so miniature it could fit
on the end of a pen, its puff of yellow
so like feathers, those wings.
And then that beak! Its eyes were beads.

When you went to set it free
it perched on your finger,
and as it flew into the night
I could almost hear it sing.

Mara Bergman‘s first full collection, The Disappearing Room, was published in July by Arc Publications. She recently won an inaugural Laureate’s Prize. Mara also writes for young children.