The Finch

I saw one Finch dressed sweet grey,
belly puffed white,
face of crisp dark charcoal,
today.

The whole
of some minutes,
I watched the bird
clutch a nervous branch
of nature’s nondescript tree,
ten feet from me.

I did not know the bird
as an individual,
its self and shadow new
to me,
but the image
of all fast beating hearts
and warm plumage
softened any brutal
suffering.
For a paused moment,
I was free.

It was then I dreamed the bird
gifted of a pleasant
life line, where
he or she spent time at wing
and song,
never longing
to be fish or dog
or butterfly.