In spring’s trauma, a goldfinch perched

On the front stoop and wouldn’t fly away.

She installed a security camera.

There was no view. The thunder cut open its belly.

The rain made the film grainy, all its secrets loosed.

The wind twisted like hair
around the purple necks of elms.

The motion detector blinks:

behind my back he’s still balanced
Fingers already
at the throat
index to atlas

The whole world about to slide off its beams