That November Day

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

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2 Responses to That November Day

  1. Elaine Beitelspacher says:

    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.

  2. Walt Pilcher says:

    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.