Autumn Mournings

She watched the little bird,
wondering why it should want to come someplace
where it was not welcome.
It futilely tapped its beak against the angled glass,
as if the outside world were its cage
and not the deceivingly lit building.
She could imagine two outcomes:
one, where the glass shattered and the bird flew in
to cause chaos among
the ordered rows of people,
and two, more likely, where the bird
shattered against the window and
stained it with ironic red blood.

What was it about the outside world
that would tempt the bird to
risk its life to escape?
She would much rather be out there,
would much rather switch places
with it and have wings,
would much rather be free
instead of invisibly chained.

She wondered if a bird could scream,
if it would scream if it killed itself
trying to get inside.
She wondered if its blood
would make a stained-glass portrait,
if that would explain the avian suicide.
She couldn't decide if its red cap
was feathers or blood,
wondered if it meant anything that
the bloody feathers were the only colour
she could really see.
She wondered if the bird was a sign,
whether to tell her to give up or not to or
that her attempts were in the wrong direction.

She knew that winter was
ironic, but it was too early
for winter, at least according to the calendar.
Maybe that was the irony.
She gritted her teeth and did as she should,
along with everyone else.
But she could still hear the clicks and thuds
of beak and feet and claws against glass,
at least until the sound of
wholehearted, more than half-bad singing
drowned it out.
With her eyes closed, she heard
wing bones snap and thoracic cavity explode.
When everyone, all at once,
saw again, all that was left was
the blood-red stained-glass feather cap.