It's Still Life

The Old Woman Applies for a Passport

The old woman stands at the post office counter,
boots still muddy from the garden,
the neighbour’s cat draped across her shoulders
like a disgruntled scarf.

The clerk eyes the crow perched on her wrist,
the robin pecking at her seed-pocket,
and the suspiciously animate twist of ivy
coiled around her walking stick.

CLERK: “Purpose of travel?”
OLD WOMAN: “To see if the moon tastes the same in Portugal.”
CAT: “She’s lying. It’s for the sardines.”

CLERK: “You’ll need a blood sample.”
OLD WOMAN: “I’m fresh out.”
CAT: “Use mine. It’s mostly tuna.”

The clerk sighs, flips through the paperwork:
Occupation: Keeper of thresholds, mender of wings
Next of kin: Wind, rain, and a particularly gnarly oak
Distinguishing features: Smells of rosemary and unfinished business

CLERK: “You’ll need a birth certificate.”
OLD WOMAN: “The river ate mine.”
CROW: “I witnessed this.” (It did not.)

A pause. The clerk stamps APPROVED with a shrug.
Validity: Until the stories run out.