Caught
Foil crackling? No. That scratching sound
announces grating news:
another bird is caught.
Our stovepipe prisons small black wings
lured down the chimney, down
the flue by some dark impulse, down
until their pleas outwit my reasoning.
They should mean brighter things
like presents, cookies, cake unwrapped,
not this unset trap I’m dared to spring.
I know the drill: unfasten door, dislodge the pipe,
persuade the flagging wings to flight.
But still I fear imprisoned things ─
fear this bird exploding into light
will miss the door and flail around
the kitchen walls more frantic than before.
What to choose? Its slow dark death
or, perhaps, another kind of death.
First published in Autumn Sky.