Too lost in song or the joy of his wings,
perhaps he did not see the glass door.
Or perhaps he did, and seeing his reflection,
was unhappy with what he saw; Not the hawk
or condor he imagined, his small life more
than he could bear. The world weighs heavy
on those with open eyes, who travel far,
see so much, then look inside.
I gathered him up in the morning news
like a still-born infant placed at my door,
careful not to disturb what had already
been wrecked. Laying him gently in a hole
of dirt and twigs, wrapped in headlines of
politics and wars, one could only guess what
might wait ahead for our own quick wings;
a path above trees or our own glass door.
(first published in The Worcester Review)