I tore the vine off the chimney,
an overgrowth of years,
strand by strand,
the venous structure of an aviary.
Sparrow nests, dead grass,
pieces of tinfoil,
lint of dust and concrete,
and the smell of musk.
There were homes inside this debris.
I had waited.
Young birds had to be raised,
shade was needed in the summer.
In the fall,
shelter from the rain and cold.
I saw the birds come and go,
rearing their families,
snuggling,
calling out in the night.
This was home,
perched on a cliff,
a fall into the sea.
What was I to do?
Their lives were clear
as the transparency of a pool,
the sharpness of an iris,
the sky where they never fell.
Only I threatened them,
held back by compassion, pity,
something that understood their lives
but not its own.
And then,
in the spring,
before life renewed itself,
I struck,
pulling the city to shreds,
leaving the stone bare,
and finished.
I went into my kitchen,
sipped coffee,
and wondered,
what is my destiny?