By Carolyn Pinet
The thirteenth bird
flies in on a wing and a prayer.
She's a magpie my granddaughter,
who likes euphony,
calls Maggie.
Her black and white feathers
plump up and glisten.
Something bad happened
to her whacky tail,
but she flutters
and improvises a two-step.
The number thirteen could
really bring you down,
but Maggie, imperturbable,
dances among our crumbs.
She knows a large crow
could beat her to them,
but she shares my granddaughter's
optimism about
the giddy generosity of life,
even when guns go off again
and Covid rises like a tide.
How unlucky could thirteen actually be?
Maggie spreads her wings and they splay
like big black kisses.
My granddaughter calls to her as,
sated, she takes off into the wide-open blue.
For Mimi who loves Maggie.