Farewell, Little Jon

(at our son’s cabin in the Berkshires)

We tuck you soft into the earth,

little Jon, holding close the memories

of your brief sojourn in our lives.

You dropped from your high nest,

landing just outside our mountain

window, nestled with your siblings,

three of them, but they were cold and gone;

the wind, the same that whipped

you from your nest,

had blown away their fragile lives;

but you lived on, and we re-nested you,

a box of leaves and twigs;

tiny quivers, feathers huddled

in a world so sudden empty, vast.

*

We named you Jon and dripped sweet water

into your wee beak, high-fived your first faint

wobbly cheep, each gentle fluffing of your wings;

watched later as you hopped so brave,

but hesitant, across the grass; fluttering

of tiny wings, feeble cries for mother bird;  

so close at hand, she was concerned,

but also so confused, distraught, and counting

only one instead of four, she scolded, railed

against the steely sky, then flew

her grief into the woods.

*

We found you, morning next,

outside our window once again,

as though you’d chosen us,

but you were lifeless now, so very still,

your final breath now spent.

*

And so we tuck you soft into the earth,  

whisper our farewells,

our thanks for all the richness

that you added to our lives,

your faint cheep, cheep,

that flutter of your tiny wing;

quiet moments of the heart,

how precious every tiny speck of life.