i pick you up,

my fingers tender against

fragile baby bird bones, and i can

barely feel

the life left under your papery skin.

fluttering heart beating

weakly, unsteadily, against thin ribs. i know

then that i will come home empty-

handed. later

that night i find a tuft of white silken fluff,

pinch it between my thumb and forefinger—

it falls apart. floats

off with a puff of air from the heating vent,

keeping me warm in the biting january cold.

i remember how on hot summer days the veins

in your tall, long, downy ears were more visible, red

with blood circulating,

circulating your tiny body. it only

seems fitting that you would leave this Earth

in the season you least favored.