I saw you there,
sweet little bird,
sitting, singing,
on the branch of
a wintered tree,
fluttering your wings,
looking about,
even at me,
connecting,
and you never
moved while I was
there, for this is
your Garden that
does not belong,
even to me.

And when I turned
my head, you were gone,
swooping deftly across
to another branch
and then down
to the dank and
wet ground looking
for a tender wriggling meal,
and all this time
I was there, still,
watching the show
you put on with
the rain falling on
your head and mine.

The sun went down,
hidden by the stubborn
clouds, and tiny you
were gone not fled,
and I wondered where
you were in the
shadowed dark of trees,
and then the night took
my thoughtful head
and not a single sound
was heard as I slept.

The morning sun shone
strong and bright,
striking my eyes,
and I rose to see my companion
among the variegate layer of trees,
waiting for the sweet little bird
to come again to the
branch where we first met.

There I saw you on the grass
with the damp earth glittering
in the sun and the symphony
of calls from other birds
was the tune as I witnessed
you still on the ground.

No more the flapping
of wings, the twitter,
and the curious looking at me,
no more the glorious flight
from branch to branch,
and tree to tree,
no more of your busy life
in the Garden, that is
mine and also yours
for keeps.

So I took the body with
its final eye and stroked
the feathers one last
time and before God that
lives in you and me,
I buried my friend
in the dirt of the Garden,
which is home
which is peace.