A bird is born.
A bird flies
Before it dies.

This is the story of every life:
One with wings smoldering to fly
Yet always grounded
With the tomb of repetitive song.
And enough is never enough.

Flying it seems is for the masses.
Those same flocks pull through, churning
Past the horizon of stolen dreams,
Snuck over a border of broken promises.

Her last egg plopped.
It (the bird) was blue and beautiful.
Its hairless bird’s eyes, molten black and shut.,
Its spindly neck of delicate rubber.

Barehanded, I picked it up on a windy October
Below a tree in a neighboring yard.
Picked it up to show my mother
Who screamed a shrill sound.

Alas…
I never understood death. I was five,
Fascinated by all life.