The cat brought a bird in last night.

It wasn't dead yet, and skittered around

on mangled wings.

It scattered feathers,

left little rosettes of blood

all over the kitchen.

I tried to save it.

I don't know why.

Maybe I just have a weakness for broken things.

In the morning,

there were more feathers,

more red polka-dots,

and a dead bird in the middle of the floor.

Not all things can be saved.