As a child, I recall coming home with my family
finding a dead bird lying on the ground below a
Its neck was broken, my Dad advised , hurrying
to remove it from our sight, but somehow handing
me a handkerchief. Why would a bird break its neck
flying? I pondered until Dad came into the house.
Learning that it had flown into the large window,
I expected that the glass would be removed to stop
any other bird doing the same.
Can birds be so unhappy that they kill themselves
by flying into window panes? What worries did they
have, were they bullied by their babies, had they no
home, did they have to eat food they hated?
I imagined a cemetery for birds with broken necks
who had despaired of life. I wept for many nights,
knowing I, too, would gladly fly into a pane of glass,
treasuring my Dad’s handkerchief.