After the Raids

A line of trees still standing, shattered glass on the pavement, electric lines, balcony railings.

Someone went out after curfew to gather the fallen wings, fold and cover the glistening feathers.

There’s no light along the streets, the night sky cobalt, pungent with fumes. Walking slowly to

avoid attracting attention, each wing tip gently fluttering, the basket too full to keep everyone

hidden.

.

Andrea Moorhead

.