Wing

Caked in dirt and dust
Weathered by the last two days of brilliant sun
Part of you lays there
Sprawling, outstretched
As if reaching out for pity
Sixteen long finger-like feathers,
Crying out for help as it lies
Detarched from your body
And you are gone, far gone
Alive or dead, I cannot tell
But by the evidence given here
I must confess I have little hope
That breath still leaves your lungs
Once you would have flown high
Perching in the concrete rafters of the bridge I am under
You were one of those demons
Who spoilt the green grasses with white pellets
Going where ever and whenever you pleased
But then
You were part of nature itself
And now nature has reclaimed you back
As your wing lies there
Lined with bootprints
Squashed into the land
Individual fibres standing to attention in haphazard rows
Like soldiers on a field day
And the muscle
Those twists and turns of flesh
That adjoined this wing to your form
Before it was so cruelly ripped away
It curls before a dandelion
And in that moment I drop a tear
But then continue on my way
Because you are not the first dead bird
I've seen today