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.