I happened upon a baby bird this morning…fallen, stolen, pushed from the warmth of the nest. A silent and still, pink gelatinous gobbet, with great bulging eyes, lids still closed. The wings, they were so intricate, so defined, stiff and tucked into the body…they had never known the stretch, nor the span…never sent for the sun, never returned by the moon. The insects, certain to arrive, will feed, aiding in breaking down its composition…that tiny bird body, bones like minuscule reeds, whistling near silence…unopened wings like a letter lost…eyes and instincts too new to see…will decompose and realign, homing in the earth, breeding with wind and origin-sowed seeds…building from its ruin, a tall and sturdy thistle… …beguiling purple crowns that will beckon to the goldfinches…forgiving stems upon which they will perch, irresistible seeds upon which they will feast, and soft down upon which they will nest…a cycle of loss and being, of rot and existence, of purpose and creation…
E.A. O'Connell
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