It’s the last week of National Poetry Month. I’m sorry I’m late, and I’m sorry this is a short entry and I’m sorry it’s rather a sad one. In honor of the baby birds I see broken on the sidewalk at this time of year:
Ode to a Baby Bird By Michelle Garren-Flye It’s that time of year when baby birds fall from the nest and lay helpless on the ground with broken wings or neck because they tried, Daedalus-like, to fly too close to the sun too early and the gods laughed—and then they panicked. Because if a baby bird learns to fly too well and too early She may become a god, so they smite her back to the ground. Is it better this way for the baby birds lying in balls of fluff On the unkind ground that did not provide a soft enough landing? They never knew love or fun or the thrill of the flight (except for that one all-too-brief moment before the fall began). But they also never knew the unkind world where hateful gods refuse them the skies just because they’re jealous of pretty plumage.
Oh my. Poor litt