She was a tiny thing, shivering against the windowpane. She loved to watch the rain fall. She didn’t mind being small, in this world this was all it was. Rivers traced by small fingertips, against the glass so thin, she had pressed her lips. Her hot breath fogged the pane and she drew with careful precision, over and over, her name.
When the world presses in, like a Tiger on your tail, you can lay down, get caught up in the claws. Or you can rise up like a tiny thing, a trembling bird with a song to sing. And when the morning comes, and the sun dries up the gathered rain, the little girl wakes to the sounds of the blue birds, singing her name.
She writes. She breathes. She traces the rain. Watches rivers form and then fade away. Leaving her name for the birds to sing. And when the tigers all have gone asleep, soothed by the falling rain, and a greater power of a tiny thing, with a name that when the morning comes, that even the blue bird has to sing.
INTO THIS DEEP 