You are meant to
light on branches
of lush trees, to fill the
world with your song.
If I caught you in my hand
your wings would beat frenetically
pressing for freedom against closed fingers.
Your soul is meant to fly but it is a cruel place you have come
with creatures bigger than you
who glorify death.
In the forest cries of joy
ring out at the slaughter of a deer.
The cold world needs your song and
heartbeat.
We must open our hand.