The Robin

It’s dead.

Lying on its back in the middle of the road,

Not a feather out of place,

I can almost see the life

It once held.

Poor thing.

I lift it carefully.

Its head dangles from a snapped neck, and

That’s when I know for sure

That it’s dead.

Carrying it to a stand of bushes, I think,

You deserved more than this

And I lay it on the soft ground

Beneath bare branches.

With each handful of soil

It dissapears into the earth

And I don’t bother to wipe the dirt from my hands as I walk from the grave.

I don’t want to rid myself of this sweet bird

Who will never sing again.