In spring, the days thin into membrane, the air escaping into somewhere
just beyond reach or taste and everything is in chaos:

The hostas grow rapidly Their fronds unravel
like tongues under the stillborn sun. Moles upset
the landscape in their search for grubs
and the lake winks with pollen and cottonseed.

Male birds begin to fly into the front windows and they accumulate:
a few at first, then a pile of broken bones outside the door, pulling from me

a vague love. The thumps on the glass
are suicidally delicate and pumped full.
They do this not because they want to come
indoors nor because the glass is too clean:

they do this because it is spring and their reflection in the glass
is another male looking for the same, so they

crash into something that looks
too familiar, too like themselves,
thinking it a threat.

Kimberly Bruss