The irony of the birds

In my imagination vast

I hoped to write a poem to last.

One to touch the hearts of all

that they might walk my inner hall.

*

I wrote of trees that line my yard.

Side by side they all stand guard,

and I have come to know the face

of four of them behind my place.

*

I scoured the reaches of my mind:

one looks like a skinny hind,

on its left, a woeful pig,

on its right, two birds of twig.

*

As I was writing of the birds,

seeing how to write the words,

one flew at me and hit its head

on my pane and fell quite dead.

*

I was deep and trapped in thought.

It struck the glass like it was shot.

I jumped because it frightened me.

I heard the thump but did not see.

*

“Oh no!” I cried, forgotten lost

Truth attained; the only cost

a quiet bird upon my deck

with empty eyes and broken neck.

*

Is there meaning in its death?

Should I try to give it breath?

And if I try, am I a fool?

Is there no such thing as cruel?

*

The birds fly on and past my sight.

The day will wane and bring the night.

And dawn will break as did the bird,

not caring if I write a word.