This Geiger counter gives him away every single time.  The closer to the truth we get, the faster the clicks; one lid against the other forsaking his secrets.

I dwell within the vessel of a Warrior. My considerable gluts command attention. Along the mirrored barrier at the back of the yoga studio I cannot ignore them when I peek to adjust my stance. They hold extended poses as if it isn’t difficult while I take in and release ujjayi breath. As if. I am the heaviest I have been, as the scale measures, in my post-partum life. They are prominent and without the tone I would prefer, but they sustain me and the weight of all that I carry as I ascend the jagged, rocky bluffs along the trails each morning searching for contentment.

Most think that the starling is a common bird, like me. Boring actually. Ordinary in color and size. Few know that she has steady feet and the ability to mutate her vocalizations to her surroundings mimicking the shrill of a car alarm or the murmur of human speech for both gain and protection. Her plume, mostly brown, has a subtle, iridescent sheen.

In my 51st year I begin to see how much my hands look like yours. My knuckles are thick and ache from holding on with ferocity to something invisible. Something already gone. To anything really to stop the spinning. And my veins burgeon with gelatinous hurt that is taking forms which no longer resemble its origin. That pain rests here as a silent reminder visible to the world.