Jerica Stark

Little Bird

The morning began with the angry cry of the alarm clock, wrenching her from a deep slumber, then the abrupt weight of her dog clambering over her, claws digging into her ribcage, as she characteristically pounced on her chest, which knocked any residual grogginess out of her: it was 5:00 A.M. She let her pup outside to disturb the pre-dawn stillness—white fur flashing against the darkness, nose to the ground, searching for any comers in the night—while she scraped together their breakfasts.