Like a dog wailing somewhere

far to the south, maybe

a coyote, or maybe hound dogs

chasing the coyote.

Yesterday, a black and white bird flew into

a glass window. I slid maple bark beneath

the shape that once was a bird,

toss the still mass out past the woodpile,

for the crows.

Crows caw above the wail.

In the still morning, the black

and white bird has been moved

closer to the porch.

A chickadee pecks

the shape

no longer a bird.