We gave a bird a funeral, my father and I—
it was one of those days
where time stands still, where
all evening sounds seem a lullaby, gently
singing the world to sleep.

Dusk was falling over us like
a thick, warm blanket
as we saw the bird at the foot of a tree—
fallen, dead, and gone.

I wanted to bury it
but my father said to leave it be;
it was half-buried anyway
in its spot of rest, chosen by fate,
its ornate wing covering a lifeless beak as it
lay in a crevice
between two thick roots.

So we scattered some leaves
of crimson and burnt copper,
wishing it well just in case it was on its way
to another life.
A gust of wind, an autumn breeze,
swept over the somber scene,
sending leaves dancing as
the bird’s beautiful soul departed,
soaring free once more.