June 30, 2009

Foundling

I sit in a small room
awakened from a daze
by the percussion of glass.
A small bird has been
drawn in by the splendorous
light of illuminated bulbs
wrapped around the plastic
branches of my family’s
Christmas tree.

But this bird couldn’t see
the barrier between
itself and the tree.
The promised haven
being denied by a thin
sheet of translucent silica.
Now she lies,
flailing in the bushes.
I bend over to pick
her up, and her eyes look
of trepidation. Or maybe
ecstasy. I am too young
to know the difference.