Laid in dirt
lies a humble bird,
wings without will
to do what birds are meant to do.
No movement
flicker or blink
can be identified surely
as the bird’s
or that of the wind.

Don’t be dead, little creature.
Live a little longer.
Gain strength from the soil
and become something more,
something that can do
what birds do.

Breathe, bird.
Grow.
Leave this filthy ground
and head to the heavens
– and fly further,
safely, free.

Little bird,
do not stay here.
Find a better home
that beside the road,
crumpled, broken.
Get moving, small thing,
please.