Window Dressing

Two birds fly past.
They are needed somewhere.
-Robert Bly

The table was set, the house was ours: Spouse and I prepared to dine, to celebrate our new home in Texas. The last of the day's sun drenched the kitchen as the windows were yet without shade. We seated ourselves, raised our forks, each heaved a contented sigh.
A mighty bang demolished the fine mood and startled us both out of our seats.
In the garden a tumble of brown feathers lay warm but still. The creature had no chance, had no concept of what he was sailing into. One moment he had been a melodious heart and two wings on a breeze, the next his breath was forced out of him by an enemy he never saw.
Both Spouse and I were greatly distressed by the loss and felt quite dreadful that it was our undressed window that had knocked him off the course of his life forever.
We ate our meal in silence, painfully conscious of the loss that lay crumpled in the dirt outside the window.
Upon tidying away the plates and glasses we set to work trying to amend the situation. Spouse industriously recommended that even a hint of colour on the glass would deter birds from flying into it.
Not having had time to unpack our belongings, the best we could emerge with was several sheets of white paper which we taped to the inside of each window of the living room. Standing in the garden afterward it was evident that we had provided a very reasonable warning sign to small feathery creatures.
Indeed, for as long as we lived in that house not another bird hit the window; they simply spun away as soon as their shadows drew close to the glass. Perhaps it was the dramatic white paper that worked the magic, or, strangely, it might have had something to do with the bold message we drew in enormous letters on each sheet:

NO FLY ZONE

This led us to the inevitable conviction that the flying friends in our back garden were rather well read.