If I see a wild bird fallen, broken in mid-flight by a window pane that showed only sky
There, contorted and feasted upon by industrious armies of red ants
Do I feel sadness, pity for his ending in the grass?
No, I do not.
When I see a bird of glorious color, plumed and proud on a plastic bough.
Those wings folded and flaccid, feathers who once knew humid jungle currents
Swift eyes now darting between bars at his passing admirers, price tag putting his freedom on sale
I see he has a very long life to live, full of well fed idolatry, enslaved to the beauty
Of his evolutionary legacy
Do I pity him, a captive prince with his red plastic bell? Do I feel sadness when I see him pluck his shining feathers with hopeless self-loathing?
Yes, I do