wings

The bird is struggling. She keeps slipping on the corrugated metal roof of our building. Birds never have trouble on my black raked roof at home. Her little feet move quickly as if treading water until she finds a point of balance. The bird contemplates the edge of the roof, threatening to fall. Of course, she can fly. Though I wonder, as it perches on the edge, if there isn't still a hint of uncertainty. The wings might not work this time.  Or not work fast enough. The air pressure might have changed. I may just not remember how. And I'm sure every time this bird leaps, there is a split-second before the wings kick into gear.  A split-second, that may feel like a month, of not knowing, possibly falling, forgetting how to fly, even though the bird clearly knows how. Has been doing it all her life. Muscle memory. There is still that moment on the edge every time.