In the warmth of my home, from behind my window,
I watch the young sparrow lift off from her branch,
to come fly directly at me, actually to me - for she sees me,
she trusts me, I have fed her and her's

I have seen many birds die hitting glass,
I am helpless to shoo her away in time

Instead I punch with my bare-knuckles, swing from my hips,
maintain rock-solid deltoids, the pane of glass shatters shards, blood, 
my feathered friend scatters not exactly unscathed, but safely broken 
through to my side

to alight on my dwarf lemon tree

cc: Chagall 2022