My wife, when she came, was, of course, a bird.
I found her on the back porch when I went to plant out some new herbs. At first, I thought she had flown into the kitchen window and stunned herself. Once, a bird had hurled itself so violently against the house that it had smashed a pane in the French doors.
She sat so still on the newly-stained boards, I feared she was dying. One of her wings was slightly spread, as if she was injured; I was afraid to touch her. She needed time, I thought, to gather herself. I watered the herbs and plucked a weed from the lawn. Removed a splinter from my finger. Made tea. I sat on the back step, waiting. Eventually, I saw a fluttering in her throat. Then she opened her eyes and looked at me. Blinked. Looked again.
She is small enough to fit into my pocket. When she sits in my palm, I can feel her heart thrumming against me. We do not speak; there is no need. What words would speak a love like ours?