I almost stepped on it

I almost stepped on it,

that small shape spilled on cracked concrete,

feathers gray and splayed

as if startled from flight,

and never caught again.

Its chest lay still—no rise,

no fall,

just the hush of quiet death

where a city’s footfalls pass.

I knelt, touched the dampness

of broken wing,

that fragile weight gone cold

between the trash and cracks.

The world kept walking past,

while I carried the heavy silence

of a tiny body flattened

against the sidewalk’s cracked face.