The Thrasher

It was dead in the bike lane

stiff from spirit’s leaving.

 

I pedaled past but couldn’t

leave prayers unsaid.

 

Couldn’t leave without words

honoring the brown and white

feathers and beauty once ensouled

in a small body capable of flight.

 

I scooped her up, head resting

on padded glove, fingers free

to feel the exquisite softness of

feathers now covering a lifeless form.

 

I took her down the hill to the small grove

of live oaks, somehow spared the

developers dozer.

 

A fork in the sturdy tree became

the final resting place for the

innocent thrasher.

 

I hope there was no nest

of hungry babes awaiting

the next feeding.

 

And if so may their hunger

be sated by a swift and sweet

passage into that other world

of Spirit where all is well.

---

 

Simone Lipscomb

For the Thrasher on the Beach Highway, Orange Beach, Alabama