Little Bird

I sat on the porch with a warm beer going flat, watching you die, little bird.

The cat came out of nowhere, some mangy grey bastard with one ear half chewed off and snatched you right out of the air like it was nothing, like the sky owed him a meal.

You squirmed in his mouth, wings flapping useless, a few desperate twitches, then the beak cracked open and the blood started pouring, bright red, stupidly bright against the dirty concrete.

Your eyes went loose, rolling like marbles in a drunk’s hand, and the fight leaked out of you all at once—body going slack, shit and piss running out the back end, a last wet insult to the whole fucking show.

I didn’t move. Just took another swallow of the beer and watched the cat carry you off behind the trash cans, tail flicking, proud as any killer.

Another day, another small thing finished.
The sun didn’t give a damn,

your young opponent,
licking chops and feathers wet,
bloody whiskers white.

For Kari Jeppesen