It’s not nothing, said the man,
bending, though his back
flamed with old scarring.
It’s not nothing, said the man
from a land bombarded in hate,
home long gone, inferno and war.
He lifted the bird into his palm,
hands softer than summer rain,
cleaned the glued remnants
of fun from each feather,
felt its wee heart start with fear.
He had known that too.
Quiet, he walked to the open door,
looked out on wildflower fields,
moved to the cool of the trees,
placed the small bird in a bush,
and sighed for all the lost ones.
It’s not nothing, he said.