For Emily Dickinson Birds were always flying into our windows Thinking they were trees. The cabin’s glass face made The evergreens reflect back on themselves, Bamboozling the birds. Scooping their bodies with a trowel, Dad hurled them over the ridge. Mom learned the birds weren’t dead, just in shock Miming death. “Keep them warm,” she said. And with each thud, I’d grab a towel to shroud And wait And raise the cope To witness resurrection after resurrection. Yesterday, I saw a gash of red on concrete It was a cardinal, fallen from the sky And no windows around to blame. Karen Engle (Windsor, ONT Canada)