by Ethel Mortenson Davis
A small goldfinch
hit our glass door.
He lay unconscious—
in the process of dying.
“I will return later
when he is gone,”
she said.
“He needs quiet
and stillness.”
When she checked again
the bird was sitting up
and awake.
Life had come back to him.
“He will be stronger
and cherish life more,”
she thought.
“A bright spot
in his spring world,”
like the green
moss-covered stone
this winter—
shining out from under
the deep winter snows.
When she returned
he was gone.
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