it is time, heron knows, he can feel in his bones it is time, even his heron-mind is washed with the knowledge so he lands on the windowsill wings milling back into empty air, around and around driving him forward driving him screenward, through the screen and ripping pillows, charlie rolls leaps provoked and unknowing but heron knows

what is in that drawer, knows this time he will not be the one transforming, it will be charlie it will be charlie who buckles at his knees at loss with himself, charlie who will become and heron is a fan of this becoming, himself old in heron-years, himself mateless now and lone, long and lone and blue, waiting for the wild shot, for the birdshot—

the mass is so small charlie turns on the lights and looks what he has done, bulky feather-bundle he falls to the floor and later the door knocks men come shaking heads but charlie needs the body needs to put it to bed, to grow sober with the boy, needs to wrap his arms in gray feathers and hold the wings