A slight flutter caught my eye,
as I passed by, the first time,
On my way, somewhere.
Not threatening to me, I thought.
Passing on return, I took a closer look:
There was a baby bird
In distress, but not yet hopeless,
So I traveled on my way,
but couldn’t lose that picture:
Life in distress, with no apparent hope
Perhaps, I thought, attempting
too early flight,
This nestling tempted fate
and struggled into oblivion…
Never to know true flight, its destiny,
brought to this hapless end.
Next day, I quickened my step
as I approached the spot,
Now empty, but for a few feathers,
not quite completely formed;
Nothing else, no certain fate revealed…
but, I could guess that nature,
At its dispassionate work, had cleared
this patch of wood of distress.
A Hill resident, the author believes that the appreciation of art should not be influenced by the vagaries or prejudices of biography.