A small thrush rest on the moldy arm of a park bench across from me;
a bench plaqued: “In Loving Memory of Someone Never to be Forgotten.”
The small thrush stretched his wings,
soaking in the leaf-scattered sun from above.
He looked at me and I looked back at him and I asked him to speak to me,
to tell me that it would all be okay;
to which he simply tilted his head for a wondering heartbeat
before sputtering off to enjoy soaring on the warm summer air
before pausing to rest again on some other memorialized wood.