The Blackbird in the Night

She rests her wing of ebony upon the ashen floor,

burying its blackened fingers

among the dry husks

that whisper in parched, raspy voices.

The rays of light streaming through the trees

gently brush a gauze

of glimmering blues and greens

and silky purples upon her broken wing;

like a dark northern sky

blessed by exhaling stars

whose breath hangs in the frigid night.

She lifts her fallen head and calls up to the night

in a voice that croaks,

a confined screech

for they have stolen her right to fight.

Her bright obsidian eyes

plead for tears,

their sharp glassy surface

reflecting the man who draws the bow.

She stumbles,

both wings break beneath her fall.

Quivering like a sea of ants,

her feet pinned beneath a branch,

her heart locked within a cage,

her wings chained by the iron that runs from her veins.

The polished curve of her beak

as strong and tough as hide,

attempts to rip her own neck

as her hunter closes the blinds.

She shuts her eyes,

hiding the fissures running through her windows.

He pulls the arrow taught

and lets his mercy fly,

for when he strikes,

all is right

with the black bird in the night.