Death of a Malabar Grey Hornbill

That car swishes along the forest road. Who cares about a poor bird in the age of lynching? Its beak with berries in it freezes. Its mate hears wing-beats that never near. A bird lover’s thoughts grow from the carcass. He climbs up the tree trunk and drops figs through the slit in the sealed nest. Beaks rise from the enervating hunger. The world needs his deed. Drooped wings are countless. First published in Pif Magazine, US. *A mother hornbill never comes out of the sealed nest until its egg hatches.