They navigate by stars at night,
    The moon, and some magnetic field,
North up the Mississippi Flyway
    In spring, or south in fall, concealed
          By darkness from our human sight.

          Migrating birds by millions pass
    Through overhead while we’re asleep,
But in Chicago birds that die may
    Be found each dawn in feathered heaps—
          Killed by striking walls of glass.

          Skyscraper lights attract them in,
    Their navigation gets thrown off,
And creatures used to field and forest
    Collide a thousand feet aloft
          With what to them has never been.

          We gather bodies one by one
    In every color of creation,
Our songbirds now a silent chorus.
    We grieve the sorrows of migration
          While building till we reach the sun.

This article appears in January 2021.

Steven Peterson is a poet and playwright living in Chicago. His recent poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Alabama Literary Review, The Christian Century, Dappled Things and First Things.