Catherine Tice works at The New York Review of Books and lives in Brooklyn.
A cloud opened, and before it Tiepolo’s gold and pink cumulate splendor, gave way to a deluge runneling from the nape of neck spineward wet. A canary opened his throat, the trilling halted as if to note no cadenza would follow. Nimbostratus drifts toward our horizon; titanium white dulls to cygnet as a black sole grinds down its own shadow. They say that in death, the bird’s spirit removes a tempest of regret, remains a flame-colored feather.
