Little Bird
I found a little bird who'd died
upon the walkway, just outside.
He lay there, very stiff and still,
with empty eyes and silent bill.
I crouched beside him, wondering,
and heard a distant thundering—
a dull salute to little bird,
a rumbling grief, a final word.
And as the drops began to fall
and splash against the garden wall,
I gathered up the tiny soul
and took him to a shaded knoll.
I buried him beneath the tree
where once he sang, alive and free,
then stood and walked back in the rain,
reflecting about joy and pain.
I can't explain the tears I shed,
what anguished thoughts remained unsaid—
but something soft inside me stirred
with sorrow for a little bird.
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