That November day
a robin heading south
struck the window
full force
flying at the tree in the glass
fell
still
upon the leafy deck.
When I went out to bear its body
to the woods
I found it on its feet
motionless
a statue heedless of my presence.
The robin stood there still for hours
waiting for the healing powers,
waiting for its life to find return.
When the sun was high
I found it gone
homeward bound
through the trees
toward the greater light.
November 9, 2016
[audio:http://www.williameverett.com/blogsite/wp-content/uploads/2009/2016/11/That-November-Day.mp3|titles=That-November-Day]
Red Clay, Blood River
This really captures how a lot of us are feeling.
Coincidentally, at Hazel’s birthday party a bird flew into the party room, hit the glass and fell on the craft table stunned. I carried it outside. It was still breathing. It couldn’t get a grip on the tree so I put it at the base of the tree. When we came out later it was gone. Life returns.
I thought it was the same day but Hazel’s party was on Friday, November 11.
Nice poem, Bill. Coincidentally (if you believe in coincidences), I had written one with a remarkably similar theme this month too. Great minds, etc.?
In Passing
By Walt Pilcher
A small fuzzy speck on the pane,
pinkish with a cottony feathery halo not quite round.
Oh—that thump yesterday.
Imagine
soaring along and then . . .
on the ground.
Stunned, but not dead;
struck down, but not destroyed;
leaving a mark.
Life’s patio door slides shut while you happily grill.
Hands hefting a heaping plate and balancing a beverage,
you hit the deck, nose askew.
Cheeseburgers everywhere,
drink shaken and stirred.
Crimson feathers on the glass?
Keep flying.