Against a pane, the movement changes. Hurt
The fluttering to escape was a rush,
Once, his was a moth against the glass.
It fought wordless for it, fled itself for flight,
Then one slight
Shift, a glass and a birthday card
Cupped in hand,
Trembling thing: feather-fragile in its hurt
To be let out.
A trembling heart, unable to get out. A delicate, silent thing.