On the Injured Bird I Couldn’t Save
Well, what’s one sparrow more or less?
Why should it be
the death of one takes happiness
away from me?
My feeder is a flurry still
of small brown wings,
and every day, my life I fill
with grander things.
But this one — in my hand it laid
its broken breast;
so with its death my hand is made
an empty nest.
© Lori A. Claxton 2016