The warbler dies with little sound—
the slightest bump on window pane.
The dog’s ears lift, then fall again;
the bird is silent on the ground.
Wind blows swiftly, time won’t stop,
north of us infernos burn,
waves curl and seasons turn—
even though the warbler drops,
and lies in dirt, its wings in folds.
The ballerina’s dance is done:
its feet are stiff, head bent down,
a final bow as bones turn cold.
How many dramas and small deaths
occur each day, that don’t mark time?
Indifferent Nature seems unkind,
and turns away from dying breaths
of mortal birds—to surge along,
stoking apocalyptic storms.
But I heard the bump. Now I mourn
the absence of the warbler song.