The bird was dead in the morning
And I sobbed.

Though I hadn’t cried in weeks,
Not for my country,
Or Palestinians,
Or immigrants imprisoned,
Or the attack on the NEH that funds my life’s work.

But for a bird, I cried
For a grackle, who would have grown up to harass my ubiquity of sparrows.

I sobbed for that little black bird
As I buried her in the apple mint,
As I fed the dogs,
As I brewed my coffee,
I sobbed.

Though I hadn’t cried in weeks,
Not for my besieged government,
Or atrocities in Sudan,
Or the erasure of our history,
Or the politics of cruelty that threatens our democracy.

I cried for a bird.

The bird was dead in the morning,
And I sobbed.