Bird

A bird flew into my window once,

hardly out of his baby feathers:

all fledgling wings and froggish mouth,

eyes dull with concussion.

I picked him up, I cleaned him off,

and in a box-bed he rested for a week.

Before long he was incorrigible—

and big enough to get away with it.

I let him go.

He disappeared into the sky

without so much as a thank-you.

What a life that must be!

For a kindly alien hand

to scoop you up

and put you away

and let you sleep off near-death—

no pity, no responsibility,

no questions asked, ever.

He returned into the woods.

I returned to work.

He never saw me again—

I have to see me every day.

I could have snapped his neck out of envy.

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