It’s said that when the widow heard
thank God the children in the wood
she took them for a kind of bird.
The cats knew better, slept and purred.
Only she misunderstood
the nature of the noise she’d heard.
Possibly it sounds absurd
to say that little children could
be taken for a kind of bird,
but that, it’s said, is what occurred;
the widow by the window stood
with photograph in hand and heard
what grief and isolation blurred;
the widow, in her widowhood,
took children for a kind of bird.
In the beginning was the word
they say, or used to. Well, they would.
And yet, it’s said, the widow heard
not children but a kind of bird.