Have you ever noticed the way a bird falls?

I saw a boy pick up one
of the rocks
by the edge of the creek,
(You know the ones)
smooth and sharp,
good for skipping,
dark and heavier
than you’d think for
such a small,
packed piece of dirt.
He looked up and
saw the red and
wanted it
for his own,
wanted to hold it
in his hands,
cradling it the way
he held the stone.
Squinting, he aimed
and missed.
He hit the brown thrush
resting on her nest,
protecting her own
white stones,
the possibility of
flight inside fragile porcelain.
He did not know
how much an apple
cost.
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