I Worried All Night about the Birds

I worried all night about the birds:
they shivered on icy branches,
and I feared they would slip off
and tumble earthward; hitting
another branch as they fell.

I must have forgotten they could fly--
even in an accident of wind
they could rely on wings;
if they missed a branch
they could always
fly to the next, right themselves
in the storm or remain in the nest,
or hidden among branches.

It’s funny the things we forget
or forget we remember--
especially when there’s an ice storm
and you’re next to me, asleep,
not gazing at the window
worrying about the birds.

Sarah A. Etlinger is an English professor and Pushcart-nominated poet who resides in Milwaukee with her family. She is the author of two chapbooks, Never One for Promises (Kelsay Books, 2018) and the forthcoming Little Human Things (Clare Songbirds, 2019). Her work can be found at The Amethyst Review, Royal Rose Magazine, Neologism Poetry Journal, and many others. Interests include cooking, traveling, and learning to play the piano.