We loved that bird – how once
he’d launch his four-foot frame
to glide above the mud and pools,
weathered rocks and rotting logs.
How once he’d stand amid the muck
plucking silver shards of life.
So what compelled his final flight
from river banks that gave him life
to the hush of lowland woods?
Some will claim birds have no soul
(some say the same of you and me),
but say not knowing one bird well.
Do you not sense a presence
more than hollow bones
and handsome feathers?
Can you see through dimming eyes
of a wild bird waiting in the woods
for what must come in morning
shadows where love and resignation
forge bonds beyond kind?
Silver feathers grace the ground
that launched his soul to final flight
to soar above what lies behind
on woodland floor and in my mind.
