Bird

you were saying
when the window shook

—or was it the whole wall—
and on the ground a wren,

beak and needle talons
in barest motion,

obsidian eyes
dazed, fooled by light

seeming air, seeming
endless as sky.

Who hasn’t flown
too fast and high,

song full
in the belly

sun-warm after a rain,
the sweet taste

dazzling. Sometimes
it ends this way,

a blind fracture
after a moment

of so much
so complete,

that fullness under
wild-streaked feathers.

Feel her she’s still warm.

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