Little Bird

flightless little bird with a broken wing,
now the days are gone to never hear you sing,
pointless to try and save you for the days,
when in nature you would be dead already in several ways,
shaking being cold with eyes closing to sleep,
the breathing so rapid and never really deep,
little bird is a burden to another life by almost death,
as nature takes it back with the little birds last breath,
an egg hatches in the nest with the mother still around,
for it will grow to sing and then again we will hear the sound,
poop scatters my car being the murder weapon in this mess,
was it an accident or not but i must confess.