print previewback CATHERINE MACDONALD
Sentinel Species
But he shall let the living bird go out of the city into the open field. So shall he
make atonement for the house; and it shall be clean.
—Leviticus 14:53
A late, freak snow storms
the state, and the wren slips in—
who knows how?—its song
vivid and rapid in the dusky
house. Dark-eyed alien
on the kitchen curtain rod?
No reason for panic.
A bird in the house,
and soon its whole body
in your palm: crop and claws,
beak and bones, confetti-light.
You’ll collect each dropped
feather for fletching, for lures.
Small casualty of strange weather,
the wren craves berries
from the greening yard,
sunflower seeds on the windowsill,
a spider, cold-stunned. Force
open the jammed window, let wind
hold the door for this migrant,
this spring trap of sunlight and appetite
trailing the ecliptic, a night flier
without sky or flock, this wilderness
aloft in the storm-rocked house. 
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