Across the Rod

A shifting shadow flickered across the wall above me. I extended my neck, tracking the rapid flutter of a sparrow outside the glass. The bookcase was too far back. Digging my foot claws into the shelf's wooden edge, I reached forward with a wing knuckle and snagged the brass bracket of the curtain rod. The metal was slick and cold, but my grip held. I hauled myself onto the narrow bar, balancing with wings flared wide. Down below, the room lay quiet in bands of early light. Ahead, through the glass, the sky opened without a ceiling. A sharp click escaped my throat. The perch is mine.