Kicking palm bark along the path,
on a walk as short as my daughter,
we come across
our third dead bird.
“Dad, another dead bird!” she says,
her outpointed arm measuring
a radius around its ruffled corpse.
She gives it a respectably wide berth.
“Death is hardest on the smallest,” say I.
“Why’s that?” The palm skitters along
with each kick.
“Because you are closest to the ground.”
She watches its down flickering in the breeze,
chills at its socket stare.
Oh, to be young once more, think I,
and closer to death.