I watched a bird die.

Quick steps.  Brisk air.

A little late for work today; all the students emerging in waves from the concert hall where chapel was held.
This one has dreadlocks and a clay coffee cup.  That one is really fat, wearing a polo shirt.
The family of God.

It was just laying there, on the cement.
It's tail feathers were bent at odd angles; its legs were shriveled like leaves.

I don't know exactly what helplessness is.
But I imagine it is something like watching the
silent screams of that bird; its beak opening and closing.

The beak closes. 
And then, like the Lucretia, the light in its eyes fade;
it whisps out, like a candle.

Like so many other birds and beast,
and so many people who have been and who will.
The yellow breast heaves, the Thestral appears,
and nudges me on;
there is nothing left here.