The Thrasher

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


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