If I had been outside away from the house when this little thrush (Hermit I think - re they are the most likely winter candidate in this area and the colorations fit) flew into the window pane I am fairly certain he would have died in the cold icy snow for he was in disarray and not moving when I picked him up. No chest movement at all and completely limp. I cupped him in my hands and went inside before the wood stove and after about 10 minutes or so his chest started to move even though his eyes were still dull and distant. Gradually he became more living though not making any efforts to wiggle or escape being cupped within my hands. I loosely wrapped him in an old worn bit of cloth table napkin and took him outside and after a small amount of time maybe 10 minutes or so he wanted free. The above picture is where I put him on the porch chair just before the one I already posted with my hand across its shoulder - when I had moved my hand off, it flew off like new.
A Fire at Night
A man should kindle once a year
A fire after dark and peer
Across this little world of light
Into the faces of the night.
On such a night of sparks and gust
He reads the Apocalypse of dust,
Knows, without his brain to guide him,
The emptiness and fear inside him,
The loneliness and bitter plight
Of a creature fed on light
Which must burn out. He hears the tread
Of vast feet above his head
Where the future and the dark
Lean above his dying spark.
And as he tends the tender shoots
Of fire, he can feel the roots
That grow from him and reach out far
Till their tendrils clutch a star.
He feels the safety of the sky
Curved about him cold and high,
He comprehends eternal life
Keen before him, like a knife
Between him and the silence going
Beyond the reach
of any knowing.
