And the people all around me, how many hadn’t
at some time or another curled up in their beds with the shades drawn
not knowing hot to feel the forwardness, or any trace
of joy? Wing of sorrow, wing of grief,
I could feel it brushing my cheek, gray bird
I lived with, always it was so quiet on its tether.
Laurie Sheck, from her poem in the book Black Series (2001)