<html><head></head><body style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; -webkit-line-break: after-white-space; ">Flight<br><br>A robin slammed <br>into my window last night<br>with a sound like a shot.<br>The room shook<br>as she flew full throttle <br>into a mirage of clear blue freedom,<br>only to meet a blow equal to her power.<br>I ran to find her on her back,<br>wildly thrashing, her tail<br>a flashing gray fan <br>against red bricks,<br>her legs bent awry, <br>before she stilled.<br>My heart broke a little,<br>caught again<br>between love and helplessness.<br><br>I thought of my mother<br>watching me soar into first marriage,<br>knowing the danger.<br>At the wedding, her face betrayed <br>her fear it was a funeral.<br>Nonetheless, unasked she’d cooked for days,<br>platters of her flaky <i>piroshki</i>, <br>thin buckwheat <i>blini </i><br>with sour cream and caviar.<br><br>At times our loved ones fly,<br>fueled by fervor<br>and innocence, towards a phantom.<br>Do we hold our hearts open?<br>Do we stand at our stoves for them?<br>Can we love ourselves, give thanks,<br>when we stand again on wobbly legs,<br>shake our wings, head for<br>another piece of sky?<br>Do we pray for the robin<br>who collided too soon, too hard,<br>who lay cold and alone, <br>carried off by a predator in the night?<br><br> - Anna Belle Kaufman</body></html>