Draft

The river wind is sharp today.

It peels the old white paint away

from the railing near the park.

The sky is getting thin and dark.

A plastic bag caught on the wire

is flapping like a frantic fire.

And there, beside the frozen ledge,

a little bird, a greyish wedge.

One leg is bent, a yellow hinge.

The wind gives it a little fringe—

it moves the feathers on its head.

It looks so busy for being dead.