Imagine my shock when
a delicate little red bird
flew almost hesitantly
into the bay window of
my mother's house and
childhood home.
Shock isn't the word.
Because I knew the bird
had broken its neck.
It's inevitable.

Nothing ever deserves
to die alone, so I went
outside and looked for it.
Squalling, that if you didn't
know any better,
would sound like a rousing
bird refrain.

The remarkable thing
about a bird's song is that
as humans we cannot tell
what they are singing, but it
sounds heavenly
regardless of whether
or not it just broke its neck
on a window.