Our cat killed a wren this morning
and left it lying on our doorstep
small as a mouse
with its soft brown feathers.
Later Revie noticed
the strange angle of the little neck, and the bent wings,
stopped briefly, wrinkled his brow with worry, crouched
“Sisa killed it.” I told him, showing my sadness on my face. “Daddy move it.”
And Wil placed the tiny body in the bed of Elecampane,
busy unfurling their leaves in the hot spring sun.
Satisfied, Revie moved on,
back to his busy world of toys, and running, and climbing, and exploring,
but not without a little backwards wave
to the small bird now
resting in the bushes.
Thank you for listening,