Two (3?) birds on hand 

small bird
dying – a grim
beauty

It was my cat. I hate it when she catches birds. Lizards, mice a-plenty I don’t mind. It was still alive. Its head flopped and its legs kicked against my hand. Some fight left in it still. I took it out and put it on the steps of the outbuilding.

early morning sun
splattered steps
– a cold comfort

I go back. Sit with it. It might fall off in its struggle to get up. It closed its claw around my finger and we spent a bit of time. Me balancing my coffee and cigarette in the other hand. The bird is still, seems content even. I speak to it. Tell it I’m sorry. The cat certainly isn’t going to apologise.

The need for a second cuppa got the bird put in my woolen cap and left in the folds of the second jersey I took off. Having been offline yesterday I decide to check my email. A friend’s memorial service is being planned. Do I want to go.

Aaah! No!
an old pain kicks
against my ribcage

My study, the room with the best view, takes on a dense glimmer I can’t stand. I flee to the garden, leave the bird to its journey, check on it once in a while, while I rub the flowers off of the rosemary bush, water the spinach, the only thing still alive in the veggie patch.

dimmed
the bird’s eye
view its last sunbeam

busy at the easel I hear a tap-tapping against the kitchen window. Bemused, I go to look. Another bird of another feather wanted in. Tweeted a song and flew off.