You are standing at the edge of the woods

at twilight

when something begins

to sing, like a waterfall

pouring down

through the leaves. It is

the thrush.

And you are just

sinking down into your thoughts,

taking in

the sweetness of it—those chords,

those pursed twirls—when you hear

out of the same twilight

the wildest red outcry. It pitches itself

forward, it flails and scabs

all the surrounding space with such authority

you can’t tell

whether it is crying out on the

scarp of victory, with its hooked foot

dabbed into some creature that now

with snapped spine

lies on the earth—or whether

it is such a struck body itself, saying,

goodbye.