She's stopped in her southern tracks Brought haply to this hard knock When she shoots from the tall spruce And snaps her neck on the glass. From the fall grass I gather her And give her to my silent children Who give her a decent burial Under the dogwood in the garden. They lay their gifs in the grave: Matches, a clothes-peg, a coin; Fire paper for her, sprinkle her With water, fold earth over her. She is out of her element forever Who was air's high-spirited daughter; What guardian wings can I conjure Over my own young, their migrations? The children retreat indoors. Shadows flicker in the tall spruce. Small birds flicker like shadows-- Ghosts come nest in my branches.