Still we tried to look away from the moment when the bird hit the ground, but it was impossible not to stare. It thudded on the dirt road. There was no sound. We just imagined the thump. It did not twitch. It had the kind of sickness that made it die while still on the air. Only a husk now. Dried and bitter. Once there was warmth inside it, and we wished we could breathe it back. It raised some dust; bristling, the dust cloud obscured what we thought was its pain. Perhaps, it was better that way. We buried it on the vacant lot near Mr. Dramb's farm. The clumps of earth we had overturned with our bare hands.
“Jimmy and Katie, 1998” was printed in Breaking Curfew, No. 4 of Inwood Indiana. Pick up the paperback from Prolific Press; the stories and poems published online are free to read here.
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