A Bird on the Road
I watched as a baby bird fell from a tree,
Trying to flap its youthful wings,
So that it may fly so elegantly.
Perhaps like his soaring father
Or perhaps like his gliding mother
Or perhaps just to feel
The wind coursing
In between his new
Feathers.
The bird landed on an empty street on the other side
Of the library parking lot where I was.
I watched it stumble up, struggling
To stand on its barely-born feet.
I heard it chirping—as if to call
For someone someplace, distant,
Someone who had left it
Not so long ago
On the road.
The bird's naïve and innocent song fell silent,
For only resting notes wrung from the branches.
There was no response to the aching plea
Of the sweetly-timbered sonata
Softly resonating from the bird's
Deflating tuft of a chest.
No choir or counter-point
Chorused to harmonize
With its tune.
I looked upon the bird. It appeared so helpless to me
And I felt that I should maybe save it
If I were not so reserved to simply watch.
I do not know how to care for birds,
Only to believe that safety should come.
I gave my sympathy and my audience.
Something intangible told me
To leave its fate
In nature's hands.
As I pondered about the bird's chances for survival,
A bright red sports car plummeted down the road—
Speeding past in a blur on the isolated street.
Its rubber tires rubbed against the pavement,
Squashing the poor baby bird,
Flattening it into a single, red stroke
Painted and imprinted
Into the rough grooves covering
The rocky canvas.
[...] Read more
poem by Tim Stensloff
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