High-speed Bird

At full tilt, air gleamed - and a window-struck kingfisher, snatched up, lay on my palm still beating faintly. Slowly, a tincture of whatever consciousness is infused its tremor, and ram beak wide as scissors all hurt loganberry inside, it crept over my knuckle and took my outstretched finger in its wire foot-rings. Cobalt wings, shutting on beige body. Gold under-eye whiskers, beak closing in recovery it faced outward from me. For maybe twenty minutes we sat together, one on one, as if staring back or forward into prehistory.