As if God kicked her from the lip of Heaven, she falls. Talons spread, she cuts the dawn with her body. She should slice the lake, wrap the trout in the hard bands of her claws, be off and away, leaving silent circles behind her body. She falls. Misses. Grace gone, she flounders. Brown-and-white wings flailing unsleeked— a terrible bundle fighting to free herself. Look: she shakes off the clutch of the lake, rises into daybreak. I will walk back to our home, rouse you from sleep. Ask for pardon.
Katrina Hays' writing recently appeared or is forthcoming in Apalachee Review, Bellingham Review, Crab Creek Review, The Hollins Critic, Hubbub, and Tahoma Literary Review, among others. She lives in Bend, Oregon. See katrinahays.com.
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