Fledge
When an evergreen turns color: a signal.  
There,  
  
behind the dusty boards, 
injury. 
  
We were playing dead in the attic, owl-less. 
Amputation was clean. 
  
A cobweb released moth wings 
from its face, 
  
elimination of a limbless use. 
  
Enough time elapsed 
for a missing person report— 
  
We were not ready. 
  
We heard her passing spread of wings 
once, felt the silent serration 
and thought, 
  
This is how we’d hear if we went blind. 
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