pigeoned fears often mistake window glass for vulnerable roosting.
i quietly watch them flap into
slam and fall against my rattling reflection.
maybe they thought my wormed fingertips clutching
the sill were an invitation to the hungry.
or curious at
the resemblance of my hollow eyes to
the one they abandoned on first flight,
they tried a homecoming.
i often mistake window glass for a pool between trees.
squinting past floating feathers
i notice rippling images of us,
calm and unsteady.
But lovely, oh.