Drum beats of bird skulls and the art of stealing
her husband's clothing.

What could have been bright enough to break
the cardinal's beak that night
when the window became timpani?-- 
said the man who lit the fire place 
to his wife who made scrambled eggs.

Oh! The lady bird she was brown 
like all the woman birds whose husbands 
wear blazers woven by their wives 
from raspberry or blood stained
dish towels. She sings less because
she was never meant for a show--
she wears the brown thick dress
of her mother's wedding night--
tucks flowers in her own plumage
in the evening out of envy of her husband
who preened at the edge of the nest-- 
The red-vested man coos, "This 
look was meant for me and look how
bright I am-- and what taste you have
for a husband with such crimson plumage--
no wonder you found me-- I was like a fire."
He laughed like a wind chime and said
"So what does that make you? Wood?"
And she kept knitting his red sweater
for the coming October when he would 
complain about finding her hiding in between
the hues of dying leaves that decorated their maple.
Of course there was that human house that the cardinals
tree overlooked and the big broad window
by the fireplace-- and the lady bird always waited
for the fire-- she was awakened by it's earliest blaze
on a September night when the children
begged for it and the man used the 
matches from his back pocket.
It was September when the window became a timpani--
she sat on the edge of the nest that
was recently rid of nestlings tucked fallen
feather from her husband around her neck--
oh they looked so lovely and there were no 
more flowers to decorate. He preened and 
looked on into the fire-- fire like
feather and fire like turning leaves and
fire like raspberries and blood--
So she beat the window like a drum face--
her head her own mallet in the relentless 
pulse of a bass drum line-- the thump of
her crest shook the foundation of the cottage
and the children shrieked and the husband bird
preened and did not noticed his wife gone.
He thought she was there in the bark of the maple--
she drummed her head hollow and her bones
broken like drum sticks and her beak
snapped like a snare drum head in a rhythm like
rain or raspberries until she fell quiet into the
the bushes in the cinders of her husband's blazer
and the refuse of rotten raspberries.

Oh, she didn't know there was glass there
she thought she could come in--
she looked sick anyway with those brown feathers--
The man said to his children when he put out the fire.

It was fire. It was always the fire.
said his wife.