The Blackbird,
In jettest black
Who, six months prior,
Thrilled the Spring skies
With its matchless voice,
Now lies stilled
In the mouth
Of a pretty Cat,
Not out of choice…
Mainly bad luck.
One cannot condemn
The skilled hunter…
It is her prerogative
And desire.
Although I do decry
The bird.
That vision
Who brought such joy
And became complacent
To danger…
Which is a tragedy…
And our loss too…
That beautiful, guileless creature…
Never again
To be heard.
