A baby bird

on the ground did lie

in a pool of light reflected

from window pane above

upon which he’d dashed

himself to death.

A tiny glossy creature

dressed all in black

save for beak bright yellow.

I bent and peered down at

forlorn way a wing lay spread

on green grass dewy carpet.

Not a hint is given in just looking,

of the miraculous power of pure song

contained within its fragile frame.

For when this bird sang

it could be heard for miles around

in the crisp clear quiet dawn.

A magickall power

confounding and transcending

the physical smallness of the singer.

I crouched cautiously simply of respect

gently picking up limp lifeless wee bird
cradling corpse carefully in hand.

Brushing closed peerless lids

folding already stiffened wings

noting tiny broken neck.

So small it was

yet such great loss

it seemed to me this morn.

Connections and images

flooded my mind

my eyes awash in tears.

I slowly drew myself erect

inhaled a great deep breath

wiped my eyes on sleeve,

and looked about knowing

there was one less voice

in Mother Nature’s chorus.

I dug a hole at garden’s edge

and gently lay crow therein

to make an end to this grave matter.

Just then I heard a far-off trill

a fledge-mate of his I’d guess,

bringing warmth to heart again.

RRifke ’twampa  2014,05,13