The wind shifted
	squirrels scampered from tree to tree
	endless highways of branches hold condominiums for all
		until this day
The jay had fallen and young, helpless, scraped it lay
	by the sandbox
Young fingers point and small mouths inform me of the accident
Gently I pick the creature up, with of all things
	a shovel
	destined of course for me to use the same for burial rites
I place the bird in a box on the roof hoping mother will take over...
A day later I toss it in the trash
	regrettably thinking of the yellow sandbox shovel



The Bird




R. David Paine II
5/7/87