Yesterday red-breasted robin’s child
tumbled
from safe-nested home,
its baby-bird cries barely audible
over gathering March winds
that must have frightened
him now again.

Looking up, I was glad to see mama bird
postured,
her tiny feet perched
in pre-flight preparation. As she swooped
down, her insufferable squawks
pierced me. I understood
too late again.

Daring a vertical dive, malicious mother
attacked
without mercy
flesh of her flesh. Helpless, I knew last
thoughts of little one, how his heart lifted
to think she’d come to carry him
back home again.

Today I bury scattered feathers and flesh
assembled
like fragmented faith
of mine. Haunted by baby bird’s final sight
of his mother tearing his flesh, I consider
him a kindred spirit, hope he
will fly again.