Cat killed a bird.
She snatched it from the table
where the crumbs were spread, a death trap.
Cat dropped the bird
in exchange for a few biscuits,
but it was dead, neck broken,
still warm and supple,
no blood, no wounds, eyes closed,
sleeping except for the limp neck.
Young bird, one of this summer’s brood,
survived the hecatomb of bird infancy
to finish in the jaws of a well fed cat.
There is perfection in a bird,
even a humble sparrow,
the colours bright and vivid, like a tree trunk,
so many shades of brown and grey,
feathers downy, soft,
and wings and tail, flying machine.
How long before humanity learned how to do so much?
Bird is gone,
a speck less in the sky,
one voice missed in the morning squawk,
one mate less when the spring couples form,
and cat, sleek and replete,
will have her biscuits regardless.
But I, the thrower of crumbs, will mourn a death
that was of my making.