The cage door hung ajar — I cannot say
what careless hand or gust had nudged it wide.
The perch still swayed. A feather, green and grey,
lay curled upon the floor where she would hide.
Her crimson crest, her breast of emerald sheen,
the way she would tilt her head to catch my voice —
all gone into a morning vast and clean,
as if the sky itself had made a choice.
I searched the garden, called into the trees,
but found only the ordinary birds.
She left no forwarding address, no keys,
no explanation rendered into words.
The door swings still. I leave it open wide —
in case she circles back. In case I lied.