At dawn, the world should awaken with birdsong—warblers tracing melodies across the sky, sparrows weaving sound through the trees.
But another hunter waits, silent and invisible. Not among the branches, but on the shining glass walls of our homes and towers.

Each year, more than one billion birds in the United States die striking glass—double what scientists once thought. A flash of wings, a sharp thud, and then silence. Some birds fly away, dazed. But most—an estimated 60%—later die from hidden injuries.

Why does this happen?
To birds, glass is not glass. It is open sky reflected, trees shimmering in perfect illusion. By night, migrating flocks follow the stars, only to be drawn off course by our artificial lights—straight into danger.

And this is not just a city tragedy. Suburban homes, with reflective windows and glowing porch lights, account for nearly half of all collisions. Death is scattered everywhere—on sidewalks, gardens, and glass facades across the land.

Yet hope is not far. In Chicago, after a single night when nearly a thousand songbirds perished against a convention center, one simple act—closing window blinds—reduced collisions by 95%. The lesson was clear: prevention is possible.

Why does it matter?
In just fifty years, North America has lost nearly three billion birds, victims of habitat loss, climate change, and silent killers like glass. Windows may be transparent, but their impact is devastating.

And the solutions are within reach. Patterned films, exterior screens, sunshades. Small changes, but life-saving ones. Dimming city lights during migration. Turning off porch lamps at night. Each action, a shield for wings that have carried songs for millennia.

In the end, the story of glass is a story about us. Will we let reflection mean death, or will we choose to make our skylines safe for the wild voices that give dawn its song?