Life lesson

I often remember at this time of year a lesson you taught me as a child

Inside the cool shade of the small barn 

Small me exploring history and mystery

A baby black bird has fallen the ten feet from it's nest in the rafters

Onto a billowy cushion of sifted dirt with the consistency of powdered sugar

Orange beak, closed eyes, featherless

Moving, chirping, mouth open 

Seeking the source of its feeding

My assessment was that it was unharmed

Only displaced

So I ran to find help

Which should have been you

You walked into the barn behind me 

I'm running, pointing to the nest and to the baby on the ground

You picked up a long-handled square shovel from the corner

And without words hit that bird with the flat of that shovel

Depressing its body into that soft pillow of dust

A cloud, like smoke, rolled out in simultaneous waves 

From under the four sides of the shovel

You said nothing

Like some hateful zen master with a warning

Who somewhere got the fundamentals twisted

When you'd gone

I buried the baby bird

And I never asked for your help again