I don’t know why he did that, why he stuck the toe of his shoe against your head and body, and flipped you rolling in the dirt and rock. The savage.
I saw you first. Whole and still, only recently having crossed your threshold into what’s next, the door lingering slack-jawed behind you.
You couldn’t have been lying on that trail so long, your belly grounded and your beak tipping to the earth. Maybe for the cold night, or only part of it.
I wanted to give you my attention right then, to let you know I see you. With hands occupied and unready, I needed some moments to go and return. Maybe I needed to see how that man who came to you next treated you, though I’m sorry for it.
And to think I’d thought he too might respect you with an internal urgency of connection, might raise you up and give you a eulogy, might carry you with him to plug into the rhythms of your pulses and your wings, might connect the stars of the universe through you.
To think I thought that. He was not curious with love and the vibrations of what-if. He noted your lack of song and did not connect it to his own.
To think I thought that. The savage.
Read more Humanitou poetry, and get more peeks at this photography project that is in the works for an upcoming gallery show. Both are about awareness of and connection with the overlooked details of nature.