Overwound

I found the tin bird at the very base

of a cardboard box I hadn’t touched in years.

I tried to bring the motion to its face,

to wake the sleep of all its little gears.

I turned the silver key a bit too far,

feeling the tension tighten like a wire.

It didn't sing or jump across the jar,

or show a flicker of its former fire.

One wing is bent, a static, frozen flight.

I heard the internal spring finally snap,

a tiny murder in the morning light,

leaving the metal dead inside my lap.