What should become of them?
All these fragile white fallen things.

While matted feathers stick to the dew,
of bright morning blades of grass.
Their gaping mouths talk to the depths,
screaming insecurities into his ears.
Sharpened hands close tight around mine,
begging for sympathetic fingertips.
As soft warm eyes squirm in their skulls,
oozing liquid vivid onto tiny faces.

Should I pick them up before they die,
then throw them back into the sky?
Though what goes up, must come down,
so maybe then, their better off on the ground.