I suspected her dead
the juvenile red bird
like points on a compass
flat lined in every direction
She blinked, turned her head,
last of her lines blurred
She allowed me pass
Hastening me to genuflection
placing her gently abed
My love for her undeterred
It is her path from us
Her death in retrospection.
words. hearts. secrets.
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Is this about your chicken? It’s beautiful at any rate. Mom
(She,her, hers) Be the change you wish to see in the world.—Gandhi Sent from my iPhone
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No ma’am it’s about a red bird that I helped the died anyways