BULBUL
- Vinita
Agrawal (India)
The thud alerts me to
its fall.
I look around and
spot it curled in an
odd shape on the floor.
I cup it in my hands
broken neck and all.
Its soft cartilages no
match
for the tempered glass
window.
Very gently, as if it
were a dandelion,
I stroke its warm
feathers.
Offer it water.
Nothing works.
My palms turn redder by
the minute.
I know I must put it to
soil.
A small brown mound
overlooked by a window
reflecting skies.
****