I see a bird.

It looks like a plane, gliding on updrafts.

It calls out, announcing its proud presence.

Proud. Robust.

Majestic.

It smashes into a tree.

As a crow flies, below it a crow dies.

The eyes go gray as the beak crumples in.

You can hear a crack.

The tiny legs are motionless.

It looks like a mangled heap burned trash, falling heavily to the ground.

Ragged, dirty, unkempt.

A lost idea, unheard of and uncared for.

Its limp body crashes to the dirt floor of a rotting forest.

The scraggly trees hear the snap of its tiny bones.

Unheard of and uncared for.

Beady eyes fade.

Its wings have fallen.

It’s dead.

There is an illustration of a bird before me.

I can’t bear to look at it.

This crow isn’t dead-

it’s flying.

Soaring through the blue waters of an upside-down world.

It makes me sick.

I saw a squirrel on the road today.

It was squished flat.

It made me smile.