I don't how to title hallowed ground-

  
I watched a robin die today;
I didn’t know that was happening, that
his wings were pulled right up to its eyes
So he could snuggle in and down into Sleep.


his breathing like a knotted garden hose in midsummer -
doing all it can to be what it ought- a
alive.

slow, rhythmic -  
his mouth wide open - his body 
gulping to find what it needed. 

he stares at us with eyes like saucers,
afraid. 

the pale grey of his textured body,
the fire orange of his belly against my mother’s blue glove.
we speak in low tones 
admiring his beauty
as if, in his shallow breaths, this is what he needs to hear;

in this intersection of pine and breath
a sacred place of surrender.
saltwater collects at  the bridge of my nose:
the flecks of his span,
the stardust of his being -
so well Created.

when my mother lays him down 
her throat clucking - 
low and guttural - 
calming in a tongue foreign to he - 
he stretches himself out - 
one last glorious moment, his wings
lifting,
a last flight.

behind this, he surrenders,
tucked between feather and floor.
Even the Sparrow - this one
fallen - 
and known
and an ocean collects where my eyes used to be.