You can fly high enough to touch the sky,
Yet along the ground, so very low,
You skirt and dart, in harmís way.
And to harm you came, feathered friend.
Quite a disquieting way to see you end,
For with your God-given gift to fly,
Fly high as the sky, you flew, so low,
Into my autoís clear windshield, more so,
You allowed it to run into you.
I ask myself why, clouds of feathers brown,
All around, floating down, why this occurred.
Why did you forsake Godís gift to you
To come to such a ruinous end as this?
Always the pity to witness the loss of promise.
A wafting feather reminds me of you.
© October 14, 2001