Continually fluttering on the windowpane,
Brush-brush, tap-tap . . . A futile enterprise,
And yet the frantic yellow finch still tries
To see through darkened glass. Is she insane?
Is there a mirrored finch in her domain
That must be warned away by chirping cries,
A fiend, perhaps, that thrash might exorcise—
Or does she simply dance to entertain?
No. Visibly fatigued, she struggles still
To find some route through dark, a tiny breach,
An unmapped secret Himalayan pass.
To rest, she briefly perches on the sill,
And in the pause I hear our pastor preach
On what Paul said: Now we see through a glass. . .
