When a baby bird fell from a branch hung over our house and shuffled into the open slider door, I cupped it in my little hands and set it outside, hoping it would push its wings against the sky the same way a child pushes the ground to stand up. I listened for hawks. I told myself its mother found it and thought nothing of the human scent caught in its feathers, a bird’s fear of humans an urban myth, a story I still recite to owls at night when they ask me who I am. I tell them about the boy who cried wolf. I tell them to listen to the moon at full howl, to rain collecting itself between my clavicles, how it drowns the little bacteria living on my neck. When one sense goes out, the others heighten. I hear better at night. I don’t answer the owls’ question. I am a self-aggrandizing dance. What I mean to say is all the things I don’t see or choose not to see may yet find a happy ending. The baby bird buried its mother before it died of natural causes. It is survived by many children who sing songs from high branches and power lines. My mother always told me to keep a few secrets. Hide them in the world. I’ve palmed her pregnant belly and thought: this is violence I can appreciate. It kicked me. It kicked me. I felt it grow so slightly.