By Benjamin Woodard

Your metaphor is a little on the nose, isn’t it, especially after another horrific week in this world? Nevertheless, there’s something to be said about the residual nature of your existence: a physical object that now preserves memories. Two days ago, we watched as tiny beaks stretched skyward from you. Four days ago, mama (or maybe papa) squawked us the riot act for daring to tread within five feet of your snarled straw and mud. Ten days ago, we spied three blue eggs—that Tiffany blue! that cyan!—resting softly in your belly to incubate. And now: Traces of feathers litter the flagstone walkway near you, evidence of a lost struggle. And now: Bits of shell are your only tenants, though even these are few, as if everything living or that once grew life was swallowed by the night. And now: While we cannot bear to toss you away, we instead hoist the electric hedge trimmer and reshape the shrub, exposing you to the elements just a little more, ensuring no other robins will choose to make you their home.

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Benjamin Woodard’s fiction has appeared in numerous journals, including Joyland, Pithead Chapel, HAD, and SmokeLong Quarterly, as well as in the 2019 and 2021 editions of Best Microfiction. His recent criticism can be found in Publishers Weekly, Words Without Borders, and On the Seawall, where he is a contributing editor. Learn more at benjaminjwoodard.com.