V. I creep out; I have areas. I contaminate.  Yet the cardinal comes back to the window again and again. Little red face not knowing what glass is. I’m hidden.  Trees draw depths in the forests, silent shawls of shadows.  Braided in the bush, lianas thread into the ground, a cylinder of serpentine roots revealing a well.  I step into the wetness of the floor and think of birdbaths at the end of April. - Janann Dawkins