A small bird flew into my window
as I was looking out.
I went to see how he fared
what was his fate.
He was lying on the ground
twitching as a scrub jay stood over him
picked him up, carried him
to the limb of a sumac
began to pluck out his feathers
scatter them to the day’s gray drizzle
to float in the air down to my feet
in tribute to one who handed him over
for it was my window that was the cause.

As if I were part of the play
I threw a stone at the jay
who dropped his victim from the limb
onto the stone path, alive no longer
eyes open, blank, gone.
The stone fell into my neighbor’s yard.

The jay quietly waited higher up in the sumac.
I walked away knowing I had come too late
could do nothing to save.

There are things I do not wish to see
events about suffering and death
when all I feel is helpless and weak
all I can do is watch or turn away.

I returned to the place minutes later –
the birds were gone.
The jay, I know, will return.

Portland, Oregon – April 23, 2017