Broken Feather Bruised Song
The world was glass and sudden shadow,
a swift descent from perch to ground.
Not a storm-tossed twig, but domestic claw
that brought the bruised bird down.
Cheesesteak, a mouthful of soft plumage,
a white and black parakeet's brief, bright life,
ending in a velvet rage.
?Stella's darkness, elegant and deep,
four times a hunter in two years' sleep.
But this one, the last, this delicate jewel,
his suffering was a lesson, sharp and cruel.
The existence of a simple, chirping thing,
and the final, silent, battered wing.
We are asked to write from that demise,
to find the truth behind the hollow cries.
And so we write the bruise, the tear,
the memory of flight that ended here.
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