Little Bird

There was once a little bird,

With plumage like deep navy,

When dew dappled her feathers she looked like a set of lost constellations,

Displaced by the night,

By day she enjoyed dancing among the clouds,

Weaving through wisps of soft white tendrils,

She pulled joy from the thundering of the river, the crackling of lightning, from the cries of the wild in the night,

Yet, there was one problem,

The little bird was alone,

She was a bright blue jay amongst throngs of mourning doves,

Everyone once and again one appear to be the shade she sought,

But it was simply wishful thinking,

She was tormented by the eerie calls of the doves,

By the whistles as they took to the sky,

Doves called to the little bird,

Questioning how she could be a bird but not a bird like them,

Why her song did not sound soft and sweet,

Why her feathers were shades of sadness,

Why her song was not the same,

She had no answer,

As it was how she’d always been,

Feeling odd,

An undesirable life,

Until the day she became no more,

The day the doves stole her light,

Her feathers,

Her life.