He watches his wife push open the door
of the campground bathroom, take a step in,
check to make sure someone isn’t hiding
in the single stall. The maneuver takes all
of three seconds, but the hesitation is at odds
with her vigor on the trail. When he asks,
she says she hardly thinks of it—most women
do some variation of the same thing, or at least
it crosses their minds, to be ready. Decades
married, he’s only just noticing this vigilance—
unspoken, subterranean, intuitive. The door
swings shut with a thud, startling a barn swallow
who nests above it every spring. The bird
swoops out from under the overhang, up again
to perch on a branch until it’s safe to return.
How many times a day does she do this?
He remembers another bird he saw once,
nesting on a restaurant’s outdoor fire alarm—
the curve of her taupe feathers, dry thatch
of twigs a surprise, so jarring atop the flame-
red box. He wonders what it is with these birds,
why they don’t find somewhere safer.
