At the Window

A bird
believing in the sky
flew like a muffled drum
into my window.

I worked my way
around the roof edge
to the body, stiff
and gloriously yellow.

The eyes were veiled
but the beak opened
and closed
creaky hinge
and the hollow chest
clicked its uneven breath.

For half an hour
I cupped it in my hands,
while it gathered strength

and when it struggled
with equilibrium
I placed it on its feet
on a roof bulge

where it hunched
and blinked
readjusting to air.

It battled its wings
against openness
to gauge if it was
what it knew.

And finally,
composed
it flew on the wind
like a yellow blossom
to the long limb of the pine.

 
by CB Follett