slams into my window,
trades her life for a crack in the glass.

I step outside to wipe away the blood.

I find her, neck twisted,
parted beak and black eyes
pointing towards the sun.

Her feathered body is so small
I can’t help but bury her
and let the fine dirt sift through my fingers.

I say no prayers.

I don’t want to wash my hands,
but I do anyways.

My hands don’t shake under the cold water
the way I think they should.

Ally Schwam