One or two of the birds
break off and heave themselves up
at the shots from the birdscarer.
Lying in the orchard grass,
the postmaster lifts the baby
off his chest.
He spins her carefully,
one big hand over the other and under,
horizontally and clockwise.
He lowers her laughing
and still spinning right down to his face.
He kisses her.
Then he lifts her up again.
The air collapses into whir and flap
This is heaven, this has to be heaven.