Worry herself, that’s what she does. Tapping the top of the barbecue lid hoping it will open, hoping there are bits of flesh worth carrying back to the hollow nest where dependents wait. Wait. Wait— Shouldn’t she be looking somewhere else for what she needs? She won’t find it there in the steel case of charred remains. She could tap, tap, tap all day, nothing would come of it. Shouldn’t she be pecking at some earthy tomb? Shouldn’t she be grubbing around? Why couldn’t she be soaring, showing off her red cap like the scarlet letter she wishes it would become? Shouldn’t she stop staring in windows that can never be forests?