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Saturday, April 13, 2024


A slight flutter caught my eye,

as I passed by, the first time,

On my way, somewhere.

Not threatening to me, I thought.

Passing on return, I took a closer look:

There was a baby bird

In distress, but not yet hopeless,

I thought;

So I traveled on my way,

but couldn’t lose that picture:

Life in distress, with no apparent hope

of help.

Perhaps, I thought, attempting

too early flight,

This nestling tempted fate

and struggled into oblivion…

Never to know true flight, its destiny,

brought to this hapless end.

Next day, I quickened my step

as I approached the spot,

Now empty, but for a few feathers,

not quite completely formed;

Nothing else, no certain fate revealed…

but, I could guess that nature,

At its dispassionate work, had cleared

this patch of wood of distress.

A Hill resident, the author believes that the appreciation of art should not be influenced by the vagaries or prejudices of biography.

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