Little bird

Rescued from a cat, I cradle you helplessly
in the palm of my hand.
You are frail like crushed paper,
contain the mysteries of sky enfolded in
feathers, beak, and soft, lidded-eye.

You breath sounds like rust forming on clouds,
and you shudder under your scruffy
coat and I think you won’t make it. But
later, you are a twitching reflex of
remembered purpose.  You make known
your indignation at being
captive and –
with some trepidation–
I release you into the garden whereupon
you vibrate your thanks, lightly
against my palm, and it feels like you’re dancing
then in a flash you are gone.

You’ve morphed into the night,
the noise from your wings the only
sign you were here.

© 2011. Sarah Horne. All Rights Reserved.

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~ by Story on November 25, 2011.

4 Responses to “Little bird”

  1. A lovely poem…tender and sweet.

  2. Thanks David! 🙂 This actually took place last night; I was cradling a bedraggled bird and I didn’t think it would make it. So being able to release it and watch it fly away was a joy.

  3. This is beautiful – and I especially love:

    “you are a twitching reflex of
    remembered purpose.”

    So glad you saved him, and that he was able to vibrate his thanks to you! 🙂

  4. Thanks Betty! 🙂

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