There’s an intruder in my kitchen. Duped by a twinkle, a bird has fluttered through my open door towards a mirage. A rookie error to be fooled by a mirror. Now it is trapped; the door elusive, the windows closed. It bashes against glass, leaves a bloody smudge, becomes a squawking mess of shit and feathers. My dogs wake, hackles rising. They fire barks, round after round, pause, reload. The fledgling pants, spent, on my draining board. Its terrified heart beats in my throat but I swallow our fear, unlatch the window, send it flapping to the faultless sky.
Annie Cowell lives by the sea in Cyprus with her husband and rescue dogs and spends her time writing, walking, and drinking too many iced Americanos. Anniecowell.com Twitter: @AnnieCowell3