We don't resent the bird who flies into the window
then falls to the ground,
dying.

We grieve.

Why then are we angry at ourselves and each other,
flailing in this funhouse mirror maze,
colliding.

Deceived.

A boulder is dropped in front of me,
light as a feather,
but I can't find in myself enough strength to blow.

The confusion grows,
and so does the pile of birds
on the ground below.