Outside of the Gas Station II

I brought it back to the garage

in a brown paper bag,

(the one from my food).

I held it close the whole way,

it did not weigh more than a tuft

of fur, like a tiny bur it nuzzled

my side happy to be along for the ride,

but with a sharp sting.

I set it down and its bony wings

unfurled, whirled, and settled

curled around itself on the small shelf

of my workbench. It looked up.

The eyes held me still,

and a tiny trill bubbled up;

it was slick like mud on the edge

of highways and sick like my grandmother,

I loved it.