When Birds Hit the Window

Posted byKathleen Cassen MickelsonPosted inpoetry, seasonalTags:, ,

Every fall, our crabapple produces bird-enticing fruit. All kinds of birds gather in its limbs, eat their fill, sometimes get a little woozy. They run into our bedroom window, which looks out on the crabapple. We’ve tried hanging sun-catchers in that window, closing the curtains, leaving the curtains halfway open, anything to reduce the illusion that the window’s reflection might be open sky.

But there are always birds who meet their ends by hitting the glass. Goldfinches and cedar waxwings mostly. Today, there was another sickening thud, and I was surprised to find a small woodpecker, the life ebbing from his little body. I put him beneath our mistflowers, a place where he could simply return to the earth. I whispered I was sorry. When I went back inside, I realized I had bird blood on my fingers.

As I washed my hands and felt sad, I remembered a poem I wrote a few years ago about this very thing – birds hitting the windows and dying. That poem was in response to finding a goldfinch that smacked into our living room window thanks to an ill-placed bird feeder. We fixed that situation. Too bad we can’t move the crabapple tree.

Here is the poem, which was published in The Linnet’s Wings: A Christmas Canzonet in 2015.

BURYING THE GOLDFINCH

The small body weighed 
a mere half-ounce.

A goldfinch thumped
into the living room window, left
fine gray feathers on the glass
like frost. His eyes
were still open when I reached him.

He cooled so quickly.

In my palm he gave up, closed
his round black eyes, his open
beak a silent red song. Through tears
I looked at his curled feet,
feathered belly, still wings.

My fault. My window with no screens
reflected the sky to this bird, invited
him to fly into a deadly illusion.

My fault. The bird feeder too close
for his safety.

My fault.

It echoed as I buried him in cold
but still-soft dirt beneath the lilac bush.
It echoed as I covered him before
November snow could freeze him
in that broken moment.
It echoed as I moved the feeder
away from dangerous mirrors, intent
on some sort of penance.

Such a tiny body
whose weight will not leave me.

We do our best to do no harm. Maybe it’s impossible to do no harm at all when humans and birds live side by side, or humans and any animals for that matter. We take up space, our windows become mirrors, we run over squirrels driving to the grocery store.

Maybe doing our best means recognizing where we can make changes, putting the stickers on the windows, letting the yard grow wild, welcoming whoever shows up, and burying the dead. Apologizing for not noticing sooner that everything we build pushes another creature out of the way. Being grateful when most of the birds who visit our crabapple do manage to fly on their way, bellies full, appetites satisfied.

cover photo by kcmickelson 2023.

Published by Kathleen Cassen Mickelson

Kathleen Cassen Mickelson is a Minnesota-based writer who has published work in journals in the US, UK, and Canada. She is the author of the poetry chapbook How We Learned to Shut Our Own Mouths (Gyroscope Press, 2021) and co-author of the poetry collection Prayer Gardening (Kelsay Books, 2023).

19 thoughts on “When Birds Hit the Window”

  1. So much heartache and emotion pours into your writing, Kathleen. You are such a caring and sensitive soul. I read it in your words. And I see it in that absolutely stunning image of a much-loved bird. Thank you for gracing us with your images and words, both beautiful.

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  2. I love your poem, Kathleen. It describes so well just what I’ve experienced, too, the thud you hear, usually from another room, the tiny patch of feathers on the window, the feelings of deep regret and sadness when you see what’s happened and think about your role in it. The cooling of the body – that chills me even as I write this. The human/wildlife interface is a fraught one, I think, full of danger but also full of promise. You can only be as aware as possible and do what you can to “make amends.”

    (And Cedar waxwings are some of my favorite birds!)

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      1. They really are and I like their unpredictable, irregular appearances. I guess they’re predictable at your apple tree but in general, they have a lovely way of suddenly showing up somewhere in a group and then flying off.

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  3. So sorry for your poem’s little bird. Evolution never taught them that sky could be hard as stone, yet now there are windows 500 or more feet in the air. And boy do I ever resonate with “my fault my fault.” I’ve desperately wanted to live without causing harm. When I was a teenager and not “allowed” to be a vegetarian, I recall feeling deep affinity with Jain monks who wore masks and swept the ground with soft brooms before each step to avoid unintentionally breathing in or stepping on a small insect. I haven’t found a way to live without the million unnoticed harms, but do my best to notice, care, and redress. Not sure what else any of us can do.

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  5. I can relate. I try my best to mitigate birds hitting the windows. Most birds seem to be okay, or at least I don’t find them under the window or nearby. Yesterday I saw one side swipe a window. Your essay and poem were both lovely and touching.

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  6. Beautiful poem, Kathleen. Thank you.
    And how many times, in many situations, do the words “my fault” echo in our heads, sometimes even torment us. Sometimes true and sometimes not. xoA ❤

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    1. Thank you. You are the first reader who has keyed in on the “my fault” piece. When I wrote this, I was thinking a lot about the many shades of guilt that I felt when I was growing up Catholic, pondering whether those feelings were really directly related to how I was taught about fault, guilt, sin or were more a result of feeling responsible for so much that is out of my control. It’s an ongoing discussion I have with myself.

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