I once saw a little bird Dead on the concrete. She was Small, Her wings Unfurled, like she was Stopped mid flight by the grace of God. I like to Imagine that the little Bird was meant for More than Her little Meager life here in the world of Pollution and politics that I discovered her at the Close of. I like to Think that little Bird once was an Eagle, or a Falcon. That She had the chance to Fly among the mountains, Skim the clouds with the tip of her Wings, build a great Nest of branches, and not Twigs. I like to Pretend that I am that little bird, that She and I are of the same Wing. That I may Soar over the misty lakes of Earth, and look down to See my beak and Black bead-like eyes Shining because I am Free, I am at Peace. I once saw a little bird Dead on the concrete. She was Small, Her wings Unfurled, like she was Stopped mid flight by the grace of God. I like to Pray that someday when I am laying on the Concrete, arms Outstretched, that someone Believes I was stopped, too, by the Grace of God.