There Was a Bird in the Road.

I Think It Had a Death Wish.

A finch perched, feet flat on the concrete intersection.
I wrung the wheel as cars rumbled by.
It let them pass overhead, 
unbothered by the closeness of metal to bone.
The lights changed and I had to move forward, 
but I couldn't bring myself to accelerate. 
I crept toward the small, still body, 
hoping it would notice my passing and react.
Horns blared. I was delaying others in my attempt to be seen.

MOVE!
I screamed.
You have wings, dammit! 
FLY!
But the bird let me go without protest.
I frantically scanned my rearview, 
praying to see it fluttering off, 
so I’d know my tender heart made a difference.
There was nothing in the air but fumes.

Salt saturated my lashes before I realized:
I was just another metal beast to the finch.
Why should the press of my particular tires matter? 
All the cars were the same, 
the soul inside couldn’t shake it from where it stood.
My eyes have been dry since, though I often think of the bird, 
wondering if anything could move it or 
if it was destroyed by its inability to feel 
the weight of what barreled toward it.

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