The bird fell from the nest today.
Hitting the ground, rolling away.
A faint chirp sent up as a distress call
but no one came, no one at all.
Tufts of soft down
sprinkled in a circle across the ground.
Determination and fear befall the small swallow
No mother bird now to help or follow.
Feathers bristle then resettle
up in arms, ire and nettle.
Wings unfold for quick inspection
they won’t lift, never having direction.
A light breeze upturns the leaves around
The fragile swallows tips aside with barely a sound.
Hooded eyes close,the small beak lowers
The plume upon its chest a new burrow.
The sun now wears the cloak of clouds
another chirp is given, quiet uneven and devout of pride
Unable to live, never having learned to survive.
The swallow drifts from one world to the next.
The form shall never lift on high
but the soul has at last learned to fly.
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Photo Credit: Patrice Lewis