Just after seven this morning,
I saw Robin die.
There was a deep and sudden thud
from the window behind my head.
It was a familiar sound,
and only after the adjournment had faded.
On
its stomach,
the bird grieved heavily.
Then very slowly,
it eased its head down, down,
down,
sinking its beak between the deckboards,
tail in the air.
It might have been a pregnant one,
too fat to steer.
I know at least it was a big female,
too fat to steer.
The heavy breathing stopped.
She sprang to her feet to face me in the window,
staring, confused,
as if pissed at me
or the technology,
at herself or the error,
or maybe at the one
who made her pregnant.
This was a dark morning,
one degree below freezing.
Belly full of burns,
all about to die.
I came back later.
She was gone.