the cardinal is a saint
messenger from god
flying relentlessly
into my window
since february.
i study its wings,
the ruffled feathers,
its cracking beak:
what is he saying?
i keep my window
closed and watch
the bird beat itself
to death against
the glass.
i built a trap,
a cardboard box
with a mirror within,
hoping the cardinal
would chase itself inside.
but the boys brought
a gun instead,
stashed it in the bushes.
the seraphim have no
feet and fly eternal-
the ground is too holy.
they crash into
polished window panes.
