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.
