“You are dust and to dust you shall return,”

but first my duty was to help you along

lying as you were in the corner of the coop

your feathers still,

your body hushed & crumpled

in the dry heat of late August

I believed you gone

but then you cried as I went to lift your broken body.

How frail and finished you were–

no Samaritan could save you

as death lingered patiently in our midst.

So what could you call it, other than mercy

to offer succor to one of God’s designs in its time of trial?

Could it be anything but grace,

to lift the shovel and strike without hesitation;

sever you from your suffering and usher in peace?