'A Stork Arrives at My Doorstep Expecting a Baby' by Regan Puckett

I have none to hand her, but I invite her inside. Her feathers are greyer and grimmer than in the painted picture books. Her every waddle is a heaving sigh. She settles on the couch, nodding her beak when I offer tea. We sit and sip from the same cup, elbow to tired wing. She asks if my arms ever feel empty without something to carry. Do I have any regrets? Only when it’s quiet, I tell her, then pull out my fiddle. She listens as I play, and even though it’s not a tune she knows, she hums along.