You found the bird on the sidewalk,
flapping its wings furiously,
unable to fly.
It was a starling,
common and feral,
yet you picked it up anyway,
placed it carefully in your
always handy shoebox,
took it home with the intention
of nursing it back to health.
On the kitchen table,
you fluffed the bird’s feathers,
stroked its back,
offered it seed.
But the poor creature merely trembled,
as frightened of you
as it was of a hawk or a cat.
Through its half-opened eye,
even the good in you looked evil.
You whispered something like,
“There, there. Nothing’s going to harm you.”
Those were the words it died of.
