The red bird streaks,
Fixes the flower
In the vase.

But it thuds to the ground,
Felled by a force field
That it perhaps guessed
At the last moment was there:
A reflection, a moment
Of self-recognition.

It lies,
Before rising again
To its feet and its flight,
Gaining one more chance
To tell truth from tricks of light.

We watch, warm,
And shake our heads:
Why can’t it tell?

But don’t we too fall
For visions of worlds
That we cannot enter,
No matter how fast we fly
Or how hard we try?

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