Between a crack in the curtains
above an overworked window unit,
through the topmost pane
of a poorly-sealed window,
I watch a round, fat robin
perch upon a telephone wire.

From my couch, I watch it hop
and shuffle back and forth
along the black cable.

Once, I was that bird.

Before this house, this body, this routine,
I balanced in an oak tree high above the ground;
took flight when threats drew near.

There were no doors to close then.
No windows to peek through.
No climate controls.
Trees. Winds.
Sky. Sun.