Some days it seems like the world turns outside in. Wings or scales or fur find gaps to press through, wanting desperately to live or die here. // I clip the distal edge of my fingernails, as close as I can get to the quick. But now, I want them to grow long. There is a blood stain stamped like memory from Dushtu’s piercing tooth when the distemper started stealing muscle control in her jaw. I rolled boiled chicken between my fingers until it shredded finely enough to tuck between her teeth. This mark on my nail is all I have left of her. // Today I spooked the dove while climbing up on a wooden stool to check on a small clay bowl of water. When she made her escape, I took the opportunity to peek in her nest. A second egg has been laid. I’d been waiting. // I thought it odd, when I went to bed last night, that a large bee seemed caught in a sheer curtain where that room of the house is constantly open to the outside through a sliding, metal gate. I swirled the fabric ’round and lightly flicked, sending fuzz and wings out into the night sky. This morning, there were five more bees, all deceased, as if each one dropped from the same bit of curtain. There had been a thick smoke before sundown that burned my nostrils and sent me retreating back into the house (but not before climbing up on the roof to make sure no one’s home was ablaze). This morning I realized, these bees had been smoked *in*, too. They came here to retreat but likely exhausted themselves through the night trying to find their way out. // Some things need tended. Some to thrive. Others to fade. The days here lately have been strange.
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