Thursday, June 26, 2008

Pajarito negro


A glossy, black bird flew in to the door three weeks ago.
I heard the thump, imagined the cry
when its tiny neck broke
I discovered it on the front step by the screen door,
its small, curved chest heaving in and out
breathing fast breaths
poor thing was scared, in pain
I couldn’t do anything of course,
just scoop it up with a shovel and
gently slide him off and under a bush,
where I have been looking every day
to watch how Earth takes back
what is hers
the gradual disintegration of life, fascinating
the science of decomposition, intriguing
all that remains now are feathers
and delicate bones
of the bird
whose cousins still sing in the morning.

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