Fledglings
By mcl
A baby bird lies cold on my front walk, His tiny talons curled unto themselves. Rent by Jays and crumpled next to Nightshade, Blue-green hoverflies converge and reap. His mother forages in my front yard. She doesn’t seem to grieve his death at all. Past his form she glides to feed his brothers, But her thrumming heart should freefall from the sky. Do I sneak out the side door and take him? Seal him away in a coffee-can casket To be buried next to the cat? Or do I leave him? I leave him for my husband to find, He always does what’s right, And I go back into the house to make lunch For my own remaining fledglings. Written August 26th, 2001 © on Aug 26 2001 12:09 PM PST 0 • 10
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"A baby bird lies cold on my front walk, ..."