Tender Flesh, Delicate Bone

 yesterday I opened the nest box

when the parents were away

to see if five pearlescent eggs 

the size of marbles 

were there

the box was half full

of fluffy white feathers snatched 

by the swallows 

from the yard 

where our ducks 

drop them

I lowered my fingertip 

into the feathery cloud 

and felt not cool, smooth egg, 

but warm, tender flesh 

sheathing delicate bone 

pelted in soft down 

feathers

today I woke to the news ---

a man walked into a school

in Uvalde, Texas and gunned 

down 14 - 15 - 16 - 17 - 18 

- 19 --- and counting --- 

children

with weapons of war he ripped

into tender flesh and splintered

delicate bone --- bodies so broken

they had to be identified 

with DNA

I remember Columbine ---

I was in the shower when my

husband came in to tell me of

a shooting at a high school in 

Littleton

I had to rinse suds from 

my hair and wrap up in a 

towel before I could press my 

ear to the radio and understand --- 

a different school from the one 

my sister attended

in Littleton

I remember Sandy Hook ---

how I held my breath 

all weekend, held my children

close, did not exhale 

until Monday 

when the school

called to declare a

a snow day

it's unseemly 

to borrow tragedy,

imagine yourself in another 

mother's pain

yet this morning I walked outside

tears in my eyes, ache in my gut

past the nest box 

where the mother

swallow swooped 

low over my head

and clacked at me with

her bill

I can still feel her babies' 

downy feathers 

on my fingertip, 

the warm tender flesh 

enclosing the

delicate bones