The small body weighed
a mere half-ounce.
A goldfinch thumped
into the living room window, left
fine gray feathers on the glass
like frost. His eyes
were still open when I reached him.
He cooled so quickly.
In my palm he gave up, closed
his round black eyes, his open
beak a silent red song. Through tears
I looked at his curled feet,
feathered belly, still wings.
My fault. My window with no screens
reflected the sky to this bird, invited
him to fly into a deadly illusion.
My fault. The bird feeder too close
for his safety.
My fault.
It echoed as I buried him in cold
but still-soft dirt beneath the lilac bush.
It echoed as I covered him before
November snow could freeze him
in that broken moment.
It echoed as I moved the feeder
away from dangerous mirrors, intent
on some sort of penance.
Such a tiny body
whose weight will not leave me.
Kathleen Cassen Mickelson