Wings
One Thanksgiving his mother told me this story
About how as a child he used to catch bugs
He loved them
He would run around the yard scooping them into a little mesh box
She said one time he forgot about the little prisoners in his bug catcher
They died
He cried
What a sweet, innocent boy
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A cage of gentle hands
Is still a cage
I know that now
I would have climbed into that cage if he asked me
I would have died too
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Now there is a new boy
His mother told me this story
About how as a child he watched birds
Admiring them
Putting out food to help them grow
Never getting too close as to scare them away
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If ever you have the choice:
A bug collector or a bird watcher
Choose the bird watcher