A goldfinch hit the window
During that part in Exodus
(Your child was reading it to us)
About the years of manna.

I looked for where it came from,
The thump, not knowing what it was,
And there it was on the grass,
Plump at my foot, ruffling some,

And there I saw its story.
Beside it, another, cold,
A tail tipped yellow, not gold,
White frost circling its eye,

Hoary as manna I imagine:
Brother, worth keeping;
Feather, not ruffling;
An eye without light’s leaven.

I bent down to see if the other,
The one that made the thump, was hurt.
It flew before my touch, alert
Not for salt; something brighter, colder.