Hatchling Ii Poem by Morgan Michaels

What might you have been,
or, grown, become-
those fleshy dunns and pinks?
A scourer of the skies? A swift?
Some kind of bunting?

Likelier, in this 'hood
another irid thief
calling its shriek a song-
on the chops of the Spring
eagerly stuffing its craw.

Pity, pity, though,
for haven't we a duty to lament
the least potential lost-
if only for its given sec,
if we the same expect?

So, so-long, little hatchling,
dashed off the rail to the lot below,
to rot among the tares,
the dinner-fare of crows-
what else can we do but sweep you, so?

Little morsel, fare-thee-well.
Nothing can ever set you
back on your perch
in open-mouthed song, so, off you go-
godspeed, godspeed, it's a long way down.