She took my poem, a neatly printed island of words on milk sea, and carefully folded the page until it became a paper penguin, set it on the edge of the table and waited.

After a moment, she gave it a gentle nudge, whereupon it waddled a few steps, paused, then flapped its little fin wings and lifted into the air. It circled once, then flew out through a narrow opening in the window.

“Can you teach me how to do that?” I asked.

“But you already know how,” she replied.

— Patrick Williston