Today I saw

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Today I saw 

an injured songbird

lying on the pavement—

probably 

a car.

I was walking to work,

through the parking lot,

about to slip in 

through the exit 

next to the garage door

of the building,

when I noticed the small body—

a Yellow Warbler,

curled like a fist,

wings folded tight

like fingers.

The morning sun shimmered

across its feathers,

flashed green and red

with each strained breath.

I stopped.

Wondered what to do:

Should I pick it up?

Hold it 

in my cupped palms,

carry it inside,

try to save it—

How?

I bent low,

close enough 

to see the beak,

sharp as a syringe,

trembling,

a tiny bead

eye.

The bird was afraid—

not of death,

not of pain,

but of me.

I wished it well,

went inside.