The babies saw the bird first.

Wide-eyed at its round body, with the last traces of fluff

Bordering its tawny wings. Its eyes fluttered closed

And it would not move, so we were worried

About our their blundering curiosity; I pictured them

crushing it under a pile of garden leaves. 

It was broken, somehow, 

but you could not see where. It would flutter away, 

eerily unphased, only when we were inches away

from touching its tiny beak. 

They never tried, though. 

I watched little Abby as she perched her hands on her knees

Bent her face forward but did not reach.

This little broken creature, somewhere inside must have been

finding the depths of peace

For it settled against the earth, closed its eyes with a flutter,

and basked in the morning light.