A bat drags its broken wing along the pavement
and I can do nothing.
Its fur is a glossier brown than I’d imagined.
It doesn’t belong in the daylight
but I can do nothing.
Young women with their dogs on leashes chatter in unintelligible languages.
Elsewhere, people are dying the sudden deaths of war
or the slow diminishment of famine
but this small death is taking place at our feet
while clover and columbine bloom sanguine at the edge of the path.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 2.
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