Little Bird

A bird fell amongst the buttress leaves by the big old tree outside our house.
It made no more noise than a felled log in the forest does.
I saw the fall, and so it sounded more like a meteor fell off the sky.
I guess that’s how it was supposed to be,
That an eye was to catch the fall,
Even though my hands didn’t.

The bird looked dead and lay down for a while.
Its breathing no louder than a cloud’s sigh.
I saw its chest move, the slight flatter of the wing, and so the breathing sounded laboured to me.
I guess that was part of the plan,
That I experienced what I had just seen.
Even though my experience was to watch.

I wondered how many times I had done that with others in my life.
Watched and thus heard the fall, watched and thus felt the breath.
Watched, but can never say, I know what it feels like to be a bird, failed wings, fallen off the tree.

I did not intercede. The bird that is a part of nature will either be or cease to breathe.
I could have ran out and attempted to glue back its wings,
Fed and cared for it, for the day it could fly again, away, high, like it is supposed to be.

I saw a bird swoop down from the sky.
The mother picked up her child, and they flew on by.
I guess that was something else I was supposed to see.
In the still of the day, and the heart of the mess,
My un-aiding eyes not the only ones to watch the little bird fall.
The baby bird, untouched by my human hand,
Whose scent, well known by its mother,
Not a lost cause, but one to be found.

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Little Bird

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