The Bird's cry

The magpie at the window preens
and pecks the stubborn glass,
an image unmerciful against
the mist that hangs heavy in winter air,
trapped and cocooned in warmth,
slightly ruffled in storm,
unfeeling, unmoved by shivering
feathers, curling up in a ball
of tight, fleeing warmth of brief life.
A careless hand would toss
the carcass any moment now
lest the children's cries fill the house
with fresh dread and ringing despair.