My Shadow Feeds the Birds

I hang my shadow on the clothesline like a sheer, limp solar panel. After dancing beside me all night long, it needs a sun-washed nap. The steel-colored version of me descends into dreams slowly, like that violin quartet that played on, as the Titanic French kissed the sea. My shadow wakes and lies on the grass, makes grass angels, and lets the clouds flicker over it, changing its tones to a muted version of whatever it touches. Then, the songbirds arrive in a flock, like they do in Cinderella to make her a beautiful gown, and they pick up my shadow by its edges, and it flies like an important piece of newspaper. Read All About It! Darkness Can Be Food! The birds fly my shadow to their nest, where they nibble it up, a tuft at a time, like a loaf of braided bread fresh from the oven.