To The Birds Who Fly into Our Picture Window

I'm sorry you can't see us in here, the TV set, the sofa, the two dogs sleeping. I'm sorry you don't have echolocation that you could throw out, the warning coming back to you that something, however invisible is here. Turn away.

I'm reading about injustice in America when THUNK. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of the sparrow flying away, stunned mid-flight for not even a second. It takes a dip and then swoops up again.

You think: It looks so open, so full of possibility, so free. I could really get some momentum going there, you think. Do some loop-the-loops and maybe some barrel rolls. So you charge ahead, wings beating a little faster, speed gaining.

And now do you carry this with you? A certain fear of large empty spaces? How many windows do you have to fly into before you begin to hesitate? How many before you stop flying altogether? You watch the others, see one, she's young, begin to pick up speed. She's almost smiling. You want to warn her and though you squawk and screech, she can't hear you. She heads right into the clear open space. You hold your breath and shut your eyes. Listen. Listen.