The small body weighed

a mere half-ounce.

 

A goldfinch thumped

into the living room window, left fine gray feathers on the glass like frost. His eyes

were still open when I reached him.

 

He cooled so quickly.

 

In my palm he gave up, closed

his round black eyes, his open

beak a silent red song. Through tears

I looked at his curled feet,

feathered belly, still wings.

 

My fault. My window with no screens

reflected the sky to this bird, invited

him to fly into a deadly illusion.

 

My fault. The bird feeder too close

for his safety.

 

My fault.

 

It echoed as I buried him in cold

but still-soft dirt beneath the lilac bush.

It echoed as I covered him before

November snow could freeze him

in that broken moment.

It echoed as I moved the feeder

away from dangerous mirrors, intent

on some sort of penance.

 

Such a tiny body

whose weight will not leave me.