The sun on the thin beige blinds gives shape to
the little house-finch silhouette, in lieu
of the house finch that comes each day on cue.
A momentary tottering tattoo
held on a skin of light. A visual echo.
An unreal film. Before she flits to go
to her mate, I watch the bobbing shadow slow
till stationary on the blinds. We know,

in Iowa in midday half-light, you
made (with paper and a pin-prick O
and the eclipse) a smile, a crescent?although
it wasn’t the moon that lit the walk below,
that lost its shape in the widening, fading glow;
it was the sun that disappointed and grew.