God fell the morning we kids found
a baby starling on the lawn.
Stepping close cat-softly
our gasping pupils gulped
the light off thick grass
swelled with verdant juice,
arrogant to outdo the absurdity
of a bird in the dirt. Everything
was strange. I pictured
his feet black roots, feathers
shoots and fronds of night
and scattered white seeds
for planting flight in Earth.
But silent, hurt, and sunk in
adolescent bloat his downy
starscape a wilt of absent heaven,
stolen on the descent.
Order: passeriforme, passeri
same as those penny-sparrows who
never fall without the Father.
We tucked the little aeronaut
into a shoebox bed and blanket,
cradled as the car flew to
wherever white-gloved
ministers could right this
blot on invincible birdhood.
We couldn’t stay to see
if he would fly again, though
they all smiled nicely
in that lying way.
Who is responsible for flight?
Where does it go when birds die?
De passer à travers ma vie,
passer aux oubliettes,
mes passereaux infinie.
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