Harpy

The wind took the cloth, then the claw. A harpy dropped, a woman's face on a bird body, the snatcher of the Greek story, not the singer on the rock. People who had been holding something were holding less. They kept a harpy gift of that sudden empty hand. It comes back in harpy playing cards that scatter if the window is open, in a harpy notebook with a line torn at the edge, in a harpy postcard of the face and the reaching claw. The sky clears. The claw does not open.