Dying Moorhen

by Robbie Coburn

For Timothy

It doesn’t know it is dying
when it searches for that final place.
doesn’t know but acts like it does.

the wounded moorhen I followed
as it cowered beneath a bush
after being attacked by a flock
of its own kind.

I didn’t know why it had happened
but the birds I chased away
weren’t strangers.

standing over the helpless creature
attempting to take flight and failing,
hopping desperately on one leg.
the gash in its head
that tore out the feathers
revealing the skin covering
the fragile skull.

it can’t tell me what this feels like.

it doesn’t know how to describe
being wrapped gently
in the stained tea towel
and held against my chest

or what the sound of the words mean
when I beg it not to die in my arms.