The Starling landed on the sand, A twitching head it tilted, Towards old bill, Wrinkled and weathered. His old black hat Ripped, stitched & feathered. The Starling rested in his hand Through time's fingers sand now wilted.
Passing the same bench I pass each week. On the beach near my home, I see an old man sitting alone staring to the see. Today I saw him looking at a bird that landed on the other side of the bench. On my return trip back from. The far end of the beach the same man slept, his hand open, holding bread he was feeding the birds. A small Bird ventured towards his palm as this poem fluttered to my mind. How life can be so fast and busy and death can be so sweet and gentle.