The Bird in the Chimney

Rattling in the chimney.
A bird is flapping its wings
against the metal
like drum taps
for an execution.

The flue is open.
I can see the sky,
but I cannot see this bird.

This bird, however, is in the chimney
wedged, chirping
its death song.

After hours of listening,
I’m sure it’s a sparrow
who fell with the Easter snow.

I cannot save this bird,
nor release it
to let it fly,
to not hear its wings
span the wind.

I’m so desperate to write
a poem
about anything
to quiet the pounding anxiety —
You must write.

This bird will quiet.

There’s nothing I can do
for this bird,
save reference.

There’ll always be the panic,
the beating,
the echo in each bird.