The Dying, the Dead, and the Flying.

A poem about birds I saw today.

A pigeon, I saw today.
Your usual fat bird,
grey-feathered, dirty
sky rats.

It was
on the foot path, near
the centre of the town,
Where not much people were.

Heaving.
A trail of red, bright spots, liquid on the pavement
leading, from the middle of the path
to the bird at the side..
As if it hid from kicking human feet, perhaps,
just passing by.

My sunk as I saw
its little head, lethargically,
glancing around, as I approached.
its back, between its wings, tightly perched,
was bare- skin, white skin, peeked through-
its grey feathers.

I wasn't happy about just leaving it,
there, on its own.

I didn't know what to do-
I knew it was going to die, there-

in Pain.
But I don't Know How to Kill a Bird.
And give it a quick Relief.

Today, a Crow, I saw.
Not Noble, head up high,
black-feathered
Noir Beauty of Death.

It was
on the road
right where
a car's wheel would've gone by.

And perhaps- the crunch- of a
bottle, i thought,
was not a bottle at all,
but the mangled body, just flattened.
of the noir crow.

It's limbs, all in directions-
they're not meant to be- its feathers,-
up and down- left and right.
I stared as I walked past.

Just because the crow is an omen,
does not mean
it deserves
such a disgraceful ending
to its story.

Today, I saw a magpie.
just off, in the distance.
on the green hill,
white and black, like a cow.

It strutted around,
in the summer, looking, probably
for a mate.
I waved at it
to avoid bad luck
but admired respectfully
from my distance.

Good Luck, rest in Peace, and Fly High.

Author's Note

It's a long one. But I loved writing it. Based on true scenarios. Every punctuation and capitalization means something in my poetry usually, used that here too.