A Bird on the Road

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A Bird on the Road 

I watched as a baby bird fell from a tree, 
Trying to flap its youthful wings, 
So that it may fly so elegantly. 
Perhaps like his soaring father 
Or perhaps like his gliding mother 
Or perhaps just to feel 
The wind coursing 
In between his new 
Feathers. 

The bird landed on an empty street on the other side 
Of the library parking lot where I was. 
I watched it stumble up, struggling 
To stand on its barely-born feet. 
I heard it chirping—as if to call 
For someone someplace, distant, 
Someone who had left it 
Not so long ago 
On the road. 

The bird's naïve and innocent song fell silent, 
For only resting notes wrung from the branches. 
There was no response to the aching plea 
Of the sweetly-timbered sonata 
Softly resonating from the bird's 
Deflating tuft of a chest. 
No choir or counter-point 
Chorused to harmonize 
With its tune. 

I looked upon the bird. It appeared so helpless to me 
And I felt that I should maybe save it 
If I were not so reserved to simply watch. 
I do not know how to care for birds, 
Only to believe that safety should come. 
I gave my sympathy and my audience. 
Something intangible told me 
To leave its fate 
In nature's hands. 

As I pondered about the bird's chances for survival, 
A bright red sports car plummeted down the road— 
Speeding past in a blur on the isolated street. 
Its rubber tires rubbed against the pavement, 
Squashing the poor baby bird, 
Flattening it into a single, red stroke 
Painted and imprinted 
Into the rough grooves covering 
The rocky canvas. 

I realized that even if I would have risen to assist 
The lonely and wounded bird, I would have done nothing, 
But perhaps injure myself in the process. 
Yet, I was drained and depressed to see the bird vanish 
Because there was no hope for it. It was forgotten 
By ev'ryone and ev'rything except for me. 
The driver did not seem to care; 
The world did not seem to care, 
But I did... 

Though I did nothing. 

Tim Stensloff