by: Chard Deniord
The windows are dressed in feathers where the birds have flown against
then fallen below into the flowers where their bodies lie grounded, still,
slowly disappearing each day until all that is left are their narrow,
I have sat at my window now for years and watched a hundred birds
mistake the glass for air and break their necks, wondering what to do,
how else to live among them and keep my view.
Not to mention the sight of them at the feeder in the morning,
especially the cardinal in snow.
What sign to post on the sill that says, "Warning, large glass window.
Fatal if struck. Fly around or above but not away.
There are seeds in the feeder and water in the bath.
I need you, which is to say, I'm sorry for my genius as the creature inside
who attracts you with seeds and watches you die against the window
I've built with the knowledge of its danger to you.
With a heart that rejects its reasons in favor of keeping what it wants:
the sight of you, the sight of you."
I'm sitting in my living room. It's approaching dusk, and it's still almost 80 degrees outside. And there are birds singing. I can hear them, even as I listen to Ronan Farrow on PBS talking about the failure of American diplomacy in the Trump White House. There are whistles and hoots. The birds are enjoying this evening as much as the kids throwing a baseball down the street.
Once I am done typing this post, I'm going to drink some hard lemonade and enjoy the first real gasp of summer in the Upper Peninsula.
Saint Marty is wearing shorts for the first time this year.