Doomed Flight

 

 

Black feathers struggle beneath my fingertips,
Their blue and green sheen vibrating violently.
An almost plastic, gray bill yearns to break free.
Unblinking, voided eyes plead and kill.

 

He would be a flying torpedo,
A small firework scuttling across a lawn—
Perhaps, in my mind, a classic dynamite,
As normal in belief as a stray leaf.

 

Yet he and his minuscule neck
Shan’t do much more than hurt a fly,
But he will fly how we fly,
Lest, like us, he fear to die.