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Sunday, August 28, 2011


A dark poem for a dark, windy day.



When I was ten I killed a sparrow.
A single well-aimed rock from a slingshot
Follows its smooth, deadly arc, cleaves the air,
And the bird tumbles to the earth, stunned and dying.
I go to it, kneel on the damp ground near where it fell,
And watch it flex its crisp wings as the world around it fades.
I try to say I didn't mean to -
I wasn't trying to kill -
But there is no reproach in its dimming gaze,
Only a kind of dull acknowledgement that the world is so made
That such a thing can happen.
No explanation is demanded; none is given.
It is only we who seem to need reasons;
Some justification to explain life's trajectory, downward into night.

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