Up against a high hall window 
comes a repeating   thwap     thwap

soft as the tap on a drum.
A song sparrow flares his red-brown wings, 

bares a pale, streaked underbelly, 
flying at his reflection. 

Daily through November and December 
he rushes, wide-winged, against the double-paned glass, 

returns to the fence and does it again.
My daughter climbs a ladder, tapes up

some paper, but it doesn’t disrupt 
his swooping. How persistent he is, 

rival of himself in a loop of false alarm.
What is he omen of?

Narcissus fell in love, 
this bird tries to chase himself away.

Bird brain, says my husband.
But we built this house, put up the fence, the window.

Only when I turn on ceiling lights 
to break the image does the sparrow stop.

He throws his body against my thoughts
even when he’s gone.