At half past nine this morning, as I sat
beside my window, reading news and clues
to puzzles, I was startled by the flat
concussion of a missile off its cruise:
a sparrow struck the pane and fell on deck.
It ceased to move. I gave it time to wake,
but saw no life. I think it broke its neck.
I moved it under brush for pity’s sake.

Of late I seem beset by instant death –
by hurricane and flame calamities,
by loss of high school friends, diminished breath,
a colleague felled by self-propelled disease.
The straw that strains my back is near absurd:
the accidental death of one small bird.