Little Bird

For Kari…

I sat on the broken porch steps with a warm beer going flat between my knees, watching that mangy cat take the sparrow out of the air like it was nothing. the bird came down still flapping, one wing bent wrong, blood already at its beak.

the cat pinned it gentle, almost tender, then bit once, neat.

feathers came down slow while the little thing twitched, eyes going milky, shit and blood going out both ends like the world was finished with it. I didn’t move, took another dead swallow of beer and thought, yes, that’s how it goes — alive one second, then not,

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

the cat looked up at me, proud, mouth red, then trotted off like he’d paid rent. the bird lay there leaking, tiny ribs going once, twice, then nothing, while the sun baked the mess down into the concrete.

I crushed the empty can and felt it in my gut, the old familiar give.

hell, I’ve been that bird plenty — snatched out of whatever half-arsed sky I thought was mine. the difference is nobody’s coming to chew my neck clean.

I just keep bleeding slow, waiting on the limp part.