Neen.

And then the hills.

Back when we were walking in
Secret tracks, climbing stair upon stair
Searching for alternative paths,
We came upon an impasse.
Someone opened up a window and
In this version of the story,
There was a bird inside.
And in this version of the story,
The sky was turning orange in the middle of the day time.
In this version of the story, the bird whizzed
Past us, leaving behind a trail of feathers
And in this version of the story,
We had enough love to watch them.

In this version of the story,
We had enough patience to watch
Feathers falling gentler than snow,
And in this version of the story,
We had more, enough
to wait until the feathers could catch up with us
So that we could catch them.

In this version of the story, the bird burst into the sky
Until we didn't remember what colour it was-
Only that this strange bird turned into fire,
And disappeared, and
In this version of the story, the half-light was
Sufficient to see that no matter which way
We held up its feathers, they would reflect the sky:
As if we were given personal clouds for the times
We would not see them.
As if just by standing side by side,
We were staring at different birds,
Different skies.

As if,
That night when the bus was a beast,
Breaking against the ribcage of the traffic lights,
The feather would wound my collarbone,
Singing,
'Home, home, home.'
And the feather would tickle your collarbone,
Singing,
'No, no, no.'

In this version of the story,
The woman in the window
Would not tell us we were
'Going in the wrong way'
In this version of the story,
We'd stare at our feathers till
We realized that there is only one way
Before an impasse,
And it goes the same way
As a bird turning into the sky.

Which bird, which sky.