A wallop of yellow over the fence and you thumped 
once against that polished glass then plummeted 

all dozen grams of you into my basement window well. 
American goldfinch, you lay there in the fallen leaves, 

your delicate head tossing rhythmically 
less than sixty seconds before you paused forever 

but yes, those were precious as – my eyes focused into yours –  
one species to another – I rooted for you to live. 

*

You’re still there this morning, your feathers soft, 
not given up yet to brittle destiny. More leaves have gathered 

for your shroud, for which I give thanks 
to the oak and the maple who are otherwise standing 

this one out. In two days I find no trace but memory
of you and that’s what haunting is, to frequent a place

from Old French, and later – a memory that visits and pursues.
So, you keep returning to me, one week, now two.

*

Did you know, little bird, that some birds carry souls
of humans reincarnated to keep loved ones near?

It might be you forgot what you were about, misplaced
the place you meant to return to or it could be instead

you got carried away with transcendent delight, the charm
of flight too glorious – and then I was outside

when you expected your loved one in and worse I wasn’t her
as you saw on second looking, forgetting then to steer. 

*

I think it is the window that forces repeated thoughts of you
my pale yellow, my down darling. In 1954, human hands

set that drawn glass miracle into caulk and frame, stepped back
and saw the perfection of a thing that appears as not a thing.

It is a simple wish, this – to be protected. Tucked safe within
yet keeping watch for what or whom. We have even forgotten

what watching is – we who live securely. Was it that, after all?
Appearing as not a thing to me, it was everything to you.