It was after school, on a Tuesday afternoon,
I was walking home-
Like I always do,
When I saw a bird,
Lying on the concrete.
I asked the bird,
Why it was lying on the concrete,
Because didn't it know,
Birds were meant to fly?
He looked at me-
Square in the eyes,
And tilted his head,
Slightly to the left.
He didn't understand, I suppose,
Why I could expect him to fly.
But it was what he had been made to do!
He had wings, and feathers,
Didn't he?
He should be flying high,
Not down here on the concrete,
Where I put my dirty footprints,
The rain's last destination.
He was worth so much more than the ground,
He deserved the sky.
I felt bad for that little bird,
He didn't know what he was missing.
It seemed I couldn't convince him,
My words weren't enough.
So I moved on-
Kept walking.
Leaving red footprints,
Soiled with the blood of the bird,
Who had a broken wing,
That I simply hadn't seen.
