This appeared in the book Bringing Back the Birds ‘Fatal Light Awareness,’ A Poem by Margaret Atwood July 17, 2019 A thrush crashed into my window: one lovely voice the less killed by glass as mirror— a rich magician’s illusion of trees— and by my laziness: Why didn’t I hang the lattice? Up there in the night air among the high-rises, music dies as you fire up your fake sunrises: your light is the birds’ last darkness. All over everywhere their feathers are falling— warm, not like snow— though melting away. We are a dying symphony. No bird knows this, but us—we know what our night magic does. Our dark light magic.