Curbside Still

Almost stepped on it this morning.

Small, dark lump on the curb.

Completely still. No fuss.

No ceremony.

Matted feathers, ruffled, brown and gray.

A tiny, stiff claw curled in on itself.

It felt so light, if you imagined prodding it,

just a whisper of bone and air.

Vacant eye, looking at nothing,

at the dirty concrete.

Death, just out in the open.

And the city just keeps going.

Another thing to step around.