Indigo Bunting

Having crashed

against a plate glass

window during migration,

it lay in the grass.

I held it in my hand,

its breast still warm, soft

as the plumage of silence.

Time passed: In early May,

I heard what might have been

the song of that same small bird,

transcendent, its breast a flash

of blue as it flew away.

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.