Ode to the Red Bird Who Slams Into our Window
1
Once our west windows stood tranquil, unruffled, and clear.
The living room within served as a place of rest,
Where I could hear
My mind, rejuvenate through every test.
It was a place to dream, to meet good cheer.
Times have changed. Our home’s no longer calm.
The peace has passed;
Turmoil has amassed.
My contemplative space has lost its inspirational balm.
2
One ordinary early morning,
Near the windows, in my comfy chair,
With some now unremembered thought just forming,
I was startled by events, then most rare.
A clumsy-sounding bang
From outside the windows rang.
The indoor-cat who at my feet lay sleeping on her back
Shot to a shelf, ready to attack.
Uncertain of what had just occurred,
The cat and I peered outside and saw a bird.
Still, the bird lay upon the ground,
An unmoving lump of red,
And I, I was sad to see such beauty downed;
The cardinal, stopped in flight, there was lying dead.
The cat, crouched above me on her perch,
So suddenly awake, prepared to lurch
Through the window glass,
Mostly to prove that she was fast.
I sighed and retreated toward my day.
Cat tensed. And resurrected bird flew away.
3
Oh, how I wish this story had a happy end,
But, alas, it does not—
I’m constantly reminded what unsettling onslaught it has brought.
The red bird, revived from death, flutters again.
He hates his glassy apparition. He’s obviously confused.
He slams himself into the pane. He must be feeling bruised.
His continued crashing leaves me unamused.
The place that once was my paradise of peace
Now reveals self-inflicted torture without cease.
My bedroom is above it, and every morn when cat and I awake,
We hear the bird-song and smack. How long will this dying take?
He castigates himself unyieldingly.
He serenades his own reflection unabashedly.
I keep hoping he will learn
And fly away free, never to return.
As he recurrently attempts to barrel through the glass,
A reality that can never be,
Musings and months pass.
He’s reminding me of me
As I soar toward visions that I almost see,
Obstinately proceeding, reverberating to the ground and so far re-arising
In spite of impossibilities.
-Me
Recently one of my boys presented his brother with a birthday card that read, "Get Well . . . I hope you recover from your mental instability soon." Although the card had been carefully selected months in advance specifically because it was a crazy, misfit of a birthday wish, the words of the card, when read aloud on the actual birthday, made us all laugh a little too sincerely. The card was humorous because of the truth in it . . . for all of us at the moment. Our dear cardinal who has forcefully joined the daily interactions of this family of two young mildlifers and two youngish teenagers is one of many elements adding to our collective insanity these days.
And so runs our reality story as I see it this week. Sometimes one can find comfort in any kind of predictability, even the unsettling regularity of a bird living a long life of failed, loud, slow, and senseless suicide. Even so, I'll push on to something higher; surely there will be a better time soon.
-a blog post by Tammy Fletcher Bergland tbergland.blogspot.com