Two birds, black in the early morning, pecking at the road
A pair of lovers, sister-brother, friends, maybe parents,
bringing morsels to awaiting hungry ones.
A pretty sight, a common sight, a rightful sight
telling that all is well in the world.
I pass to the side, slowly in my small car, they not moving.
My own greeting goes unnoticed, unchanging.
They are most busy, most as being the birds that they are
black and unchanged by my passing.
There is quiet, and all is well in the world.
I look ahead. Roaming, comes the roar of engine foreign to mine.
He sees, he must see, he must see two birds, black and busy
with their chores, with their rhythm unchanged.
The sound, the dreadful sound of increasing strange motor to mine
He seeks them, he targets them and lunges straight out for them.
Helpless they are to this invader, this villain who preys upon them
in their chosen task, they becoming his purpose.
I watch in mirrored view at what becomes the horror.
Two birds rising quickly interrupted from their chore
with danger now known. Two birds rising quickly,
two friends, lovers, sister/brother, or parents they are.
Two black birds.
One wins the race, one fails. I see the strike to my horror.
The unlucky one is flung by the strike, the intended strike.
I scream, and only I hear this sound, becoming a curse
of my profanities toward this villain, now a killer who breaks
the pair as one falls to the road no longer pecking, no longer
seeking the morsels once had. One bird is stilled and silent
of action. The other glances down at the fallen one, failed
to rise and be free of the villain. The other flies off.
No longer a pair, no longer two, but one left lonely
and stilled in the road. It is quiet, but my heart rages
at such a hateful thing to see. I cry inside for this beauty
of a life taken in anguish, made by disgustful pained soul.
I curse his triumph. I condemn him and find my way back
to my black winged brother, the lifeless lover, sister- brother, parent.
I lift him from road and soften his body to earth of green
And make him one last honor of restful place
for the shell that remains, that he now is stilled and silent.
Two birds once they were, once but no more.
One bird now is free. The other has flown.
All is not well in the world any longer.
— Stephan Brigidi