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, Stunned, 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?