Mr. Thuringer

David and I were seven

when we found the baby bird

beside the oak tree in his backyard.

Featherless and pink, its eyes open,

beak wide to receive a meal.

We studied the branches

to see where it came from,

scanning for a nest

and a way to it.

David ran and got his dad.

He would know what to do,

a dad could put it back home.

But when he saw the bird,

he picked it up,

walked a few paces

and threw it hard against the tree,

a solid thud as it collided with wood,

and when its beak still opened,

he threw it again, and again.