Two Birds, One Bird

 

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

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