Red flits among the blueberries.
A Finch has braced herself
in the nets for her meal:
Wings atop, body through,
And tries to fly away–stuck.

By the time I reach her, she, upside down,
has resigned:Head limp, eyes fixed,
Talons still clutching the threads

She wound herself in.

I spend my lunch hour

clipping the net ($300, my boss says,you should have just stomped it),
and she rolls unruffled in my fingers–
Trust, I hope, but her bowels release,
Terror.

She knows when I finish,
Snip the string binding her neck,
And zips away leaving me,
Calm to that point, wailing

With relief, eating My lunch with a ferocity,

As if I were hanging upside down

And this meal would be the last thing
I’d ever see.