As I sat with my book
and glass of Chardonnay
one Monday on the patio,
a fly flew by,
and as I flicked my wrist
to sweep it on its way,
my eye found its destination,
a bird on its back
in the grass, its yellow breast
exposed to sun and rain,
to other lives in need of life to feast upon.
Each afternoon revealed
unseen destruction
around the yellow breast
until, at last,
a small ball of white fuzz
upon the green lawn
alone remained.
It took a single week
to watch the evolution,
and I was humbled
by the magic and the mystery,
the majesty of nature
and its tender care
for all who die
and all of us who
stay behind to watch
a bird with yellow breast.
