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.