Baby Bird, Baby Bird
Late in the summer,
or early in the spring,
a new baby bird,
with fresh feathered wings,
suspended his wings for the very first time,
a virgin of the treetops who nested firmly through the night,
was punctured by the gravity of the world in mid-flight.
he came down with a thud and a snap in his spine,
and of all of the cars, he landed on mine.
A week later I found him,
beginning to decay,
his once virgin feathers had begun to turn gray,
he was sallow and limp as death watered out of his side,
the death of an innocent,
the tainted bride.
Because gravity seems to kiss only the meek,
the ones who hope, the ones who seek,
the ones who tend to feel all too much,
until their heart starts to melt and their bones start to crush.
And I knew this moment well when I saw this dead thing,
and did not think about his suffering,
but how detesting it was that he was rotting on my roof,
and this moment was the only needed proof,
for the six year old me would have gathered the creature,
and held a funeral like that of a preacher,
and would have adorned the small child with flowers like the rose,
so that from him in the earth new things could grow.
I would have spoken to him about what I had loved,
the potential he had,
how he was now happy above.
One can tell they have succumbed to the callous of the cold,
of the gravity of the forces,
of the growing of old,
when they see lost innocence and feel inconvenienced at best,
when they are no longer saddened by a baby bird’s death.
"Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place."
-Kurt Vonnegut
