This poem came about by the confluence of two completely different factors.
` One, obviously, was finding dying sparrow on the concrete at the entry to my garage.
The second was an article in The Conversation Canada, about journaling. If you’re not sure what to write, the article suggested (I’m paraphrasing) list what you can note from your senses. Five things you see; four things you hear; three things you touch; two things you smell; one thing you taste.
I tried that exercise while thinking about the bird whose body I had just moved into my garbage can, and suddenly they started forming a poem. So here it is – in part...
I pick it up, a mortal morsel cupped in my hands.
It makes no effort to flap, to fly.
It rests on my skin, light as a snowflake,
soft as a lover’s touch.
I move it to a shady spot, where the day’s heat
bears down on it less heavily.
The bright beads of its eyes flick towards me.