Wednesday, April 17, 2013

April 17

Of the perhaps two-hundred juncos and a handful
of song sparrows that inhabited the back yard
waiting for a spring storm to pass before moving
north, was it perhaps one whose path crossed that
of my car a couple of miles away just at dusk,
and how was it that one feather somehow
stuck to the back window momentarily, making
me sure that the bird, glancing off the passenger-
side window, had not survived the meeting,
making that bird among all of them a known
bird, individual among many that appeared to be
all the same, and is it always true that random
death gives the victim its particularized
selfhood, its moment of complete recognition.

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