The bird.

On the afternoon of April 29, 1987, I was out walking my dog when I spotted a small bird on the ground struggling to take off in flight. I picked it up, took it home and put it in a box to try nursing it back to health. It died the next day and I buried it in the back yard. Consumed by grief, I came up with this poem.


I found him
Fluttering weakly
Wouldn’t come to me,
But once I held it
It perched on my finger
And liked me
And I loved it.
When I was lying down,
I put it on my stomach
And it fluttered to my shoulder
And liked me
And I loved it.
It chirped in the box
Begging for food
So I gave it a worm
And was happy
And liked me
And I loved it.
But the bird got weak
And was dead when I got home
Never again will it fly.
It liked me
And probably still does.
I loved it
And I always will.

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