poor bird
you looked at me
with your red side-eye
opened your beak wide
and let out a
soft, plaintive

I wanted to reach out
and stroke your speckled back
touch your head
offer comfort
but I didn’t
because I wasn’t sure
that you wouldn’t lash out
in fear
or pain
with your pointed beak
meant for breaking open
crab shells, or oysters

all I had were words
and prayers
and trust in Mother Nature
even though I didn’t like it

so I left you there
to die (so I thought)
a pile of feathers
growing smaller and smaller
with distance

it wasn’t until much later
that I remembered
there is no death
a thought meant for you
infinitely more comforting to me

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