After the Storm, 8 p.m.

After the Storm, 8 p.m.

Climbing over poles and broken branches

On the debris-covered streets,

Walking the dog through the havoc the night after the storm,

I stumbled over those two fledglings, one dead, one still alive,

In a front yard of cat-owners.

Whilst death was certain here, I wondered

Whether my feathered friend would stand the slightest chance

If I took it home.

My dog meanwhile carried its sibling.

Eating moist dog food from tweezers

Birdie survived the night. On the first day

It grew kind of accustomed to my hand. It was still raining.

On the second day, it greeted me with a faint peep when I came in the door.

It still rained.

On the third day, it hopped on my lap.

I did not need the tweezers any more.

It ate out of my fingers.

On the fourth day, the sun was finally shining. We practiced flying in the backyard. It talked to me in its squeaky little voice. The next day would be back to nature.

On the fifth day

When I looked into the cardboard box where it was sleeping

It was dead.

Now I wonder – should I not have taken it home?