In the cottage

a thrush is caught beneath the glass ceiling—
must be a she because of the irony, plus
her coloring is nothing fancy. The racket
woke me at 5:20, I thought a horse
shaking its mane but this was feathers
in a fury. I opened both doors,
the rest of the windows, climbed back
to my loft to hope she’ll fly in time
for a calm coffee. Her cry is the squeak
of a fire alarm’s expired batteries
except irregular, alive with pique and worry.
Cill Rialaig is Gaelic: Church of the Regulars.
This regular didn’t follow the rule
but rather left her church, the sky,
soon to regret it. So do I.