Bird

Hold the bird with the palm of your hand

not the fingers.

Be gentle and weightless as if holding a bubble

or a sphere of light

of the irreparable kind

of the endangered kind.

The feathers are darkly speckled, moony yellow, black.

Do not get distracted by the feathers,

or by the small bald patch of pink

on the crown of its head.

Its wings fight against tough sinews of skin and vessel,

its taloned feet go limp.

There is nothing more fragile than its brittle, soft yellow

flower beak

carved open in a small space

in a soundless call

in the lily palm of your hand.

Do not get confused and think it is grateful.

It is calling for the trees and its nest, only,

and we cannot be selfish like that

again.

Watch the bird fly away, this creature the size of your fist.

Which the skin under your palm

has forgotten how to miss.