Jim burns
The Yellow Bird
A yellow bird
perched on the dying branch
of a tree whose
lack of leaves
accentuated its color.
Passers-by
wondered
what was this yellow bird,
what was it doing here
sitting on this branch
day after day,
week after week,
sun beating down
leaving its beak wide open
and panting,
wind challenging
its tenuous hold on its branch,
snow transforming it
into a tiny ice sculpture,
and they began coming
to observe it,
but it seemed oblivious
to the attention
and never moved,
and after awhile
they began taking it for granted.
They did not know
that it was a very old bird,
a former pet who one day
sought an open window
and freedom,
but freedom was not
what it had appeared to be
to this previously coddled creature,
and on its return home
it found all the windows closed
so it now sought the solace
of its branch
as it grew older
and its wings felt too heavy
to keep its body in the air.
And one day
it fell off its branch
and landed dead
in a pile of brown, decaying leaves
that rustled and settled over it,
and the people who
had viewed it with wonder,
then come to hardly notice it,
mourned the passing
of their little yellow bird.
Had they perceived
their earlier feelings
would its life
have been different?
It’s too late to know.
A yellow bird
perched on the dying branch
of a tree whose
lack of leaves
accentuated its color.
Passers-by
wondered
what was this yellow bird,
what was it doing here
sitting on this branch
day after day,
week after week,
sun beating down
leaving its beak wide open
and panting,
wind challenging
its tenuous hold on its branch,
snow transforming it
into a tiny ice sculpture,
and they began coming
to observe it,
but it seemed oblivious
to the attention
and never moved,
and after awhile
they began taking it for granted.
They did not know
that it was a very old bird,
a former pet who one day
sought an open window
and freedom,
but freedom was not
what it had appeared to be
to this previously coddled creature,
and on its return home
it found all the windows closed
so it now sought the solace
of its branch
as it grew older
and its wings felt too heavy
to keep its body in the air.
And one day
it fell off its branch
and landed dead
in a pile of brown, decaying leaves
that rustled and settled over it,
and the people who
had viewed it with wonder,
then come to hardly notice it,
mourned the passing
of their little yellow bird.
Had they perceived
their earlier feelings
would its life
have been different?
It’s too late to know.