Bird of Prey

Izabelle Hood

One cloudy afternoon, I drove my little black car to
the gas station, stepped out of the car, and almost
stepped on a dead bird, a bird of prey, lying flat on
her back, gazing towards the darkened sky, still
yellow eyes, an open, sharp, beak, and talons that
reached for the clouds, she looked as if she cried to
the sky before death, a last call for help as humanity
clouded around her, everyone still, everyone quiet,
everyone certain they heard their name.