Giving Up the Ghosts

by AMANDA PASSMORE-OTT

Orioles wing semicolons from maple branch to feeder, drawn to blackberry jelly like moths to light.
Hummingbirds whir in arcs, a dissonance to motorcycles shifting somewhere in the distance. Morning is
thick with last night’s rain, and all is drunk with the sickly-sweet perfume of honeysuckle.  A smudge of
eather is all that is left of a starling who hurtled himself into his own reflection on our bay window. How
warm his body in my cupped hands, index finger gently stroking a head limp and lolling. I remember
watching the light grow dull as cataracts in my cat’s eyes as the last needle pierced her tiny leg. Wave
petunias shivered. White sheets of rain erased the mountain summit. The frantic purr and whine of
lawnmowers as the first drops spatter. I watched his open beak panting until all was still. A last peak of
sun found his feathers still freckled and slick as oil. I hope I am as iridescent in death.

Cackling starlings—
invasive beauty
the sounds of human