Sad and Lovely, Your Trail of Feathers

I found
a dead red bird, smashed
face first into the dirt,
hurtled from the sky at
high velocity
like he'd been in a hurry
to crash.

The size of a fist,
the size of a heart,
small like Icarus
after the sun.

That was the day I found out
you were leaving us
trailing your promises like
feathers
pulled from fighting,
some broken, some just dropped.

"Oh,"
I said, not sinking, crashing.
A small red fist.
My Heart. That bird.