in the moment, it is soft and warm
and dead, its head lolling forward
like the hydrangeas weighed down
by rainwater in front of the house.
my wife calls me gently from her
office. she heard it strike the glass
and looked out to see it try to lift
its head twice before it stilled.
bird strikes happen all the time—
I’ll watch them, stunned, stumbling
like children just coming of age
conjuring the confidence to leave.
this one, my wife said, struggled
to lift a wing, blinking in the shade.
by the time I arrive its eyes are glass
and its long tongue licks lifelessly
at air. I wrap it gently, small thing,
in papers, and hide it so my daughter,
at home recovering, won’t be haunted
by a ghostly echo, the scars it evokes.
I cannot name it, and spend a day
searching for it: a northern flicker,
it hints, brightly, fitfully at the light,
swiftly fading in the late afternoon.
