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On my patio, on his back, the small bird lay inert,
I rued the window that deceived his sight;
appearing to him he could fly through, he was hurt,
and it looked like, surely death had been his plight.

Unmoving little creature, I just couldn't leave him there,
without having time to bury him properly.
I saw long grass, temporary 'til I could spare,
a moment. so I aimed to toss him carefully.

Gingerly, I picked up the unmoving form,
when, what do you suppose, to my surprise,
his little wings went into action, live and warm,
and he flew up and away before my eyes.

It makes me think of times when a hope seems dead,
and plans and efforts all just go awry,
and something surprising greets my eyes instead;
it's when the dashed idea shows that it can fly.

06/27/2017 Carol Welch
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