As If It Sang

The bird was healthy,
Fledged, a few months old,
Ready for winter

As could ever be.
The first winter storm
Was fairly mild, wet,

Above freezing, but
Terribly windy.
The bird was flying

Just after sunset,
For unknown reasons,
Maybe to return

To the safest perch
It knew for the night,
Despite gusting sleet.

One gust pushed it down
As it crossed a road
And it caught the grille

Of a car rushing
To get home also,
And the next morning,

The driver’s daughter
Saw its crushed body
Wedged like a fistful

Of boneless, feathered
Muck with an open
Beak wide in the gap.