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There’s a Story at the End

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I don’t know what to say.

I need the birds to

dance across the

page

with their feet dipped in ink.

It’s a medieval riddle’s

answer,

though it would be cruel

to force birds’ feet

into wells.

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I guess we take their feathers,

turn them into quills;

maybe we could wait

to find quills

inside forests:

gifts from the sources of stories

and the desert

and the sky

and moving waters

taking the shape

of earth below.

That’s what I want to tell,

a story!

Something for everyone.  And

is there such a thing?

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Once there was a child

in a forest

Who came upon a grown-up

clearly starving.

The child gave the grown-up

the only piece of

bread

in the child’s bag.

The adult rose up and thanked

the child.

Then they noticed that

the child’s bag

had a hole through which

crumbs had fallen—and through

forest-magic

had not been eaten

by birds or other creatures!

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They knew certainly where the

crumbs

would take them,

so they went home

where everyone was

known,

because everyone was

home.

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C L Couch

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Photo by Jan Kopřiva on Unsplash

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