The bird in your hands, I'm sure you were lifting, its wing crooked and unhinged, the loose door swing-creaking close and open again, connecting yet dividing. How could it ever hold up a human, build a bridge from its body, frame steps from earth to heaven, dusted with feathers, avian friends, magpie corpses. It must've thought your fingers were bars, your palms the ground and ceiling, your face a sphere of hot plasma burning the grass up, and though it could no longer fly, it knew of something beyond the atmosphere.