At her desk at the side of the house,

Where light breaks,

The curtains are parted,

My mother is writing a story.



I pause at the door entrance,

And listen to the click of the keys.



Young as she is she carries a great cargo,

I wish her a lucky passage.



She pauses,

The whole house seems to be thinking.



And then she's at it again,

The bunched tapping of the letters.



Like a dazed starling,

Trapped in a room.



The bird never giving up,

Flying to the window, again and again.



Like the story being written,

Changed again, and again.



Like the bird suddenly sure,

The story is finished.



The pride is seen in her eyes.

And I thought I saw a starling fly by.