A Morning Visitor

He came the way good news arrives,
Not sent for, and without a fuss,
The gentleman of little lives,
Making a doorframe out of us.
His crest was up. His eye was in.
He held the branch as one who owns
No more than what a bird has been:
A weight of feathers, breath, and bones.
I would have paid him if I could
For such a look, so plainly free,
But grace is not the sort of good
That takes a coin from you or me.
He tipped his head. The morning tipped.
I stood corrected at the sill.
Then off, as if the string had slipped,
And left the window ringing still.