Another Sparrow

 

Another sparrow

hits glass, flies away

stunned to die

like the husband

of a woman I knew, a pillar

of his community. Left her

with five children

and gambling debts.

 

After the first few

I call a service

that installs peel and paste

film sheets in patterns

birds can see the way

we see guard rails

or blinking arrows—

row of white dots, dashes

a coded message

on every pane.

 

I am told my brain

will adapt and I’ll stop seeing

them. I don’t have that kind

of time or faith

in what I’m told.

So I move the feeders further

from the house, hoping

for fewer dead birds,

feathers in flower beds.

 

I wonder if the woman

whose husband died

ever stops wondering

where he thought

he was going.