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
no longer a bird.