Cardinal Sin

When he came, he wandered
down the stone path,
the wind an echo
of a hush, a rush
of air.
He called her name,
but all he heard
was more of the same.

He found her
on a ladder on the porch,
crying.  Four dead cardinals
in a pile lying
by the bench.

She dipped
a rag in soapy
water, wiped
the filmy glass.

"Birds can't tell
the windows from the sky,"
she cried, "and neither can I.
Neither can I."

And when the glass
was wiped tranparent,
she reached down,
picked up the silver
teapot that had sat
tarnishing in the breakfront
for years. She picked
it up, poured water
down the pane.

And his laughter and delight
at such a sight
shattered all she knew.
Birds flew.
Feathers and sunlight.

The View from Here