That Is the Ache of Wings

I wonder if the rain has etched a spotted
bull’s-eye on the window. Something lures
the bullet birds to smash and scrabble, knotted
toeholds in the screen. The blind obscures

their glitter eyes, their beaks like shining corn,
but not the skullthunk knocking on the glass,
the frantic clack of wings, their feathers, shorn
and flung like eggshells, strawing piebald grass.