splat.

his little beak
slightly ajar on its rusty hinge--
wings splayed as though the victim
of the tiniest crucifixion

barely-clawed bird toes curled and
withering
like the striped stocking-feet
of the witch of the east.

amazed,
my eyes lurch slightly from their sockets

the impossibly small body intact
(aside from the snapped spine
and thin threads of blood)

still pressed
--held there by the congealing
of his own caked blood--
to the grill
of your rust-worn truck.

he has been there for two weeks.