How old was I?
I can’t be sure. You know
How Time can be; how it
Gets stretched, compressed
Torn and torched, but
I know I was young
Trying to fit in again
Before I learned to stop;
I was out with my brothers
Taking pot shots at birds
With a bb gun, as we all
Used to do, long ago
It was my turn. It was
The cutest tiny sparrow
Sitting quietly on a branch;
I wonder what it might
Have been thinking with
Its final thoughts, having
No idea, how the need
To belong leads humans
Astray, leads us into dark
Thoughtless places with
No idea how we landed
There, on a dangling twig
I raised the little air gun
Perched it on a mound
We were using to steady
Our aims, and looked down
The gun’s cold sights. “No,”
I thought, “I won’t do it.”
Taking careful aim, I moved
The sights to the right, was
It three inches or four, who
Knows, and I squeezed the
Trigger. Unbeknownst to me
The sights were off, which
Is probably why my brothers
Kept missing; I gasped, as
It fell like the lightest stone,
Lifeless, when just a single
Moment before it could have
Soared to the clouds above
I screamed, dropped the gun
Running into our home, into
My mom’s arms in disbelief
At what my hands had taken,
Never again would I point any
Gun at any living thing, but
Still, too often, the sights are
Off, another error is made,
Another bird’s wings harmed;
So more and more, I find myself
Alone, with just the ghosts of
So many mistakes, and Time
