Pavement Feather

I left the shop with hot black brew,

a good day’s start, I thought I knew.

Then something dark, a sudden stop,

right by the curb, outside the shop.

A bird, unmoving, stiff and slight,

its little life done with the light.

Its claw, a tight, dried, brittle thing,

no longer meant for flight or wing.

A flash of green, a purple gleam,

a feather caught in morning's beam.

It lay there, pressed to gritty stone,

a tiny, broken, final bone.

The cars rushed by, the world kept pace,

leaving no mark, no empty space.