The
cat briar came, green and stubborn, lifting barbed tendrils through the forest
as if the woods owed it a path.
The
honeysuckle crept down from the tree, twining in long spirals that smelled like
dusk.
They
met in mid-air, one reaching up and the other down. Cat briar hooked and held;
honeysuckle twirled, laying blossoms over thorns like apologies.
The
wind knitted them together, and rain stitched them tight.
Before
long, they made one rope—prickly, fragrant, alive—painful and lovely, impossible
to get free of once you were entangled in it.
Especially
if you were a baby bird.
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