I'm Eda Limone and this is the slowdown.

On my friend's property in Sonoma, they've given me a little place to stay over the last 12 years.

It's been my landing spot, my haven, where I can come to my home valley and have a place to stay

every few months or so. Recently, after visiting my parents at their house for dinner, I went up to the

apartment in the hills. My friends were traveling so the property was empty. I was working on poems

and emails and work before I called it a night. Even while busy, I felt my love for my little home away from everything.

But right as I was about to wrap up work and get into bed, it sounded as if someone was shaking the

handle to the kitchen door. And then they stopped and shook the other door handle. My heart was racing. I could barely

breathe. I didn't have a plan for this. I grabbed a heavy flashlight that could double as a weapon

and said through the screen, hello? And there was no answer.

I said it louder and with more gusto, hello, and nothing.

So then I did what was terrifying me the most.

I opened the door.

Right then, a bird tried to fly right into my face and I shut the door quickly,

preventing it from attacking me or getting inside the apartment. I didn't scream, but I said,

why are you doing this? And I meant it. It took me a while to get to sleep after that. But when I finally woke in the morning, I opened the door and all was quiet, and there were

a few sad grey feathers on the threshold.

I couldn't figure out what it meant.

In my head, I kept thinking of the word visitation.

Perhaps it was attracted to the light, or to the moths and the

mosquitoes attracted to the light inside the kitchen. I don't know. But I know that I hoped

it survived. I hoped it could make it without a few feathers. Perhaps it was a way of telling me that I needed to stop being in such a frenzy.

...