I
remember how bird-like her tiny features were,
as she visited our house,
for her eyes were small and quick,
and she sat upright, balanced, alert.
She was alone even as she ate among us,
content to be watchful, to hold back,
perched cautiously
as she plucked at her food.Anxious, she seemed ready to flit
away --
I once, thoughtlessly, spoke a harsh word,
and this little one broke into tears.
After that, I walked around her
with a light step
as I would any wild thing
lest she should dart from me.
Later, I heard how the car
slipped
from the road and rolled
(her mother departing through the side window
of her life forever),
and when the spinning stopped
Curin's body lay breathing brokenly
within the crumpled metal.
I felt as small as she,
and I recalled years ago my sorrow
when I stooped over the body of a bird
stopped in flight by the clear air
of a picture window.
Forgive me, for this prayer
comes in anger.
Why must the little ones
find themselves alone and broken?
The kittens left by the roadside, quivering.
The fawn orphaned and starving in deep grass.
The squirrel crushed into blacktop.
I claim her, this one who
ate at my table --
I ask that you make her legs straight,
I ask that her arms stretch out whole again --
this one who is worth more
than a thousand sparrows.
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