It starts small: a bud, a leaf, a bird.
This particular small brown Cuban wagtail
that hops on stick legs after crumbs
and will fly through the kitchen
and out again.
Sometimes it expands and takes you with it:
the migrations are spectacular
like dreams you couldn’t make up if you tried –
like last night’s dream in which
I led my parents
into a hotel room to make me
and told them, “I’m glad you could
get together” as I left them there.
Sometimes a life grows
seventy years or more.
Sometimes, it stays small. They touch
and nothing comes of it.
The bird hops clean away.