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The Starling
When I was small
the starlings roosted one by one
on grandma’s party line wire
(like jittery black clothespins)
to bandy their gossip back and forth
until the wire hummed
with their inanities.
By luck my slingshot found its mark.
One toppled from the wire soundlessly
like a clothespin blown loose in the wind.
The others rattled on, oblivious,
no questions asked.
It dropped straight down.
I ran to see where it had fallen
(headlong into the trash)
expecting it to be stunned only
and I would laugh as it flew off.
There,
between a flattened can of Campbell soup
and a Brillo pad used up,
and bleeding from one empty eye
the still warm bundle of feathers
looked ready for flight.
(so fly!)
But when it did not spread its wings
or chatter any more
I cradled death in my hands
(soft and almost weightless)
and cried
as I buried both victim and weapon
in the same box.
Copyright ©
Roxanne Andorfer
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