For one whole week
it rained without a
break.


On the first day of sunshine
and light clothes,
a bird smashed and broke a wing
against a wall on
First Street.


For eight hours
it lay on the pavement,
flapping now and again
its one sound wing


dragging the broken one
like a warning
from the far country of its
youth.
For eight hours:
breathing softly, while the
whole human city passed by.


Towards the end of the day
a beggar
wondered what mistake it had made
in its calculations


and muttering curses to a neon sign,
cupped it in his hands
and made his way to his plastic-paper shack
by the banks of the Mukuvisi River.