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-       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.