I flush the birds out with my steps
House sparrows in the yews
A pair of mourning doves at the feeder
They startle, loudly, then
resettle on the power lines
I tell myself, look up
Like my grandpa used to tell my dad
It’s good to feel small,
to remember there’s a sky
The flags waving from the porches grow faded,
giving way to the invisible, persistent wind
They split down the middle, tear at the seams
So much to contemplate, walking to the office
Such a wider world
The dog walkers, the morning smokers,
the semi idling with its window shades drawn
Birds and sky and flags and people
starting their day, quite independently
of whatever happens when I step inside the door
And that’s comforting to remember
A colleague once told me,
What we do isn’t life or death
Even if it feels that way sometimes
Rosalie Hendon
Rosalie Hendon is a poet living in Columbus, Ohio. She is published in Chiron Review, Inverted Syntax, Cosmic Daffodil, Flora Fiction, Ravens Perch, and elsewhere. Rosalie reads for Black Fox Literary Magazine. She published her debut chapbook, The Black Between the Stars, in 2025.