POEM - For The Little Bird Breathing His Last Breaths

The little bird breathing his last breaths
wiggles on the red clay but the janitor,
with his lit cigarette dangling,
pushing his trash, goes right on by.
He doesn't even notice the hatchling desperately
flapping toward little bird white light.

Why is it that flowers do not seem to suffer so,
even as they wither?
Their end seems so graceful and quiet.

Or is this just the trade-off for mobility: that endings are so much more turbulent,
Dramatic, demanding attention?

M C Biegner 7/21/06