The Thrush

I approach and stare
Thinking the thrush is dead
It has hit a windowpane
As I go to pick it up
To dispose of it
A cruel word dispose
Its tiny heart still throbs
Minute breaths
Quivering in its chest
Flies tentatively gather
Happy for a new bequest
The thrush so beautiful
Such fragility wasted
Its song forever ceased
I cannot touch
Its dappled plumpness
Full of promise
Now full of sadness
Unable to disturb its last breath
I’m writing this
Waiting for its death
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