There is a bird here
with a broken wing.
It cants off to the left
drooping almost to the ground.
The feathers are oily,
shredding.
He hops around the base
all day, scavenging,
picking up things
here and there,
making a living.
I left for awhile
and came back.
He was still alive.
I thought he would've died
already.
That wing was so ugly.
I asked him how he'd made it.
He raised his head above his shoulders,
just like a king,
as he said to me:
"I am a bird
with a broken wing."
For a minute,
he stared at me,
then hopped off
with that broken wing.
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 5:31 PM UTC
There is a bird here
with a broken wing.
It cants off to the left
drooping almost to the ground.
The feathers are oily,
shredding.
He hops around the base
all day, scavenging,
picking up things
here and there,
making a living.
I left for awhile
and came back.
He was still alive.
I thought he would've died
already.
That wing was so ugly.
I asked him how he'd made it.
He raised his head above his shoulders,
just like a king,
as he said to me:
"I am a bird
with a broken wing."
For a minute,
he stared at me,
then hopped off
with that broken wing.
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