Sentinel Species

A late, freak snow storms

the state, and the wren slips in—

who knows how?—its song

vivid and rapid in the dusky

house. Dark-eyed alien

on the kitchen curtain rod?

No reason for panic.

A bird in the house,

and soon its whole body

in your palm: crop and claws,

beak and bones, confetti-light.

You’ll collect each dropped

feather for fletching, for lures.

Small casualty of strange weather,

the wren craves berries

from the greening yard,

sunflower seeds on the windowsill,

a spider, cold-stunned. Force

open the jammed window, let wind

hold the door for this migrant,

this spring trap of sunlight and appetite

trailing the ecliptic, a night flier

without sky or flock, this wilderness

aloft in the storm-rocked house.