White Birds Near Cold Water

Jennifer Hill-Flores

May 4, 2025

The bulb of the belly slips in,

anchored by spindly legs,

straight as swords.

The cold water cracks,

shots in the dark, an array of pushpins

teasing out fear and mourning and

the quiet suffocation.

Your only job is to breathe, not brace.

Stop bracing. The body begins to contract

with a deep and heavy song

pushing through raw toes and

fingers on fire.

In the swimming sightline,

wet head bobbing above and below—

like loose memories

dotting the horizon—

you see an island that wasn’t there the last time,

when the sun won all the days of summer.

Now, this bump of land

vibrates with white birds,

but not seagulls or any species you know.

You call them “white birds,”

wondering when you will start to

care about the names of things.

They turn to you,

How far can you swim?

You know it’s cold in there.

Let’s see what you’re made of.

Thinking birds can talk,

telepathically, on a winter day,

as you swim in the frigid currents

against a grey-purple day’s end

is enough to distract you for

ten feet—time is long and short at once.

Breathe broadly as blood rushes to

protect every organ in your body.

You’re alive and swimming, and

heartbeats flutter through you,

all heavenly in their dispersions.

And those birds watch you,

your skin aflame with love.

(Lake Travis, January)

Jennifer Hill-Flores is a writer and editor living in Austin, Texas. She holds an MA in Writing from Johns Hopkins University and a BFA in Writing, Literature & Publishing from Emerson College. She is a teaching artist with the Austin Library Foundation and serves as a volunteer reader for Ploughshares. Her pieces have been published in Black Fox Literary Magazine, Bridge Eight, Cathexis Northwest, Flash Fiction Magazine, Funicular Literary Magazine, San Antonio Review, Wild Roof Journal, and others.