By Dana Mele
The little thing was unharmed, new wings downy-soft. The remains of the mother were spread in blue tufts at the sidewalk’s edge. A cat, we figured, maybe a hawk.
“Let’s kill it,” Allison said.
I curled my fingers protectively around the baby bird, feeling its warmth and little thrumming heartbeat.
“We could feed it. Keep it in a shoebox until it’s strong enough to survive.”
“It never will be.” Allison lifted a loose stone from the curb, big enough to kill.
“No.” I placed the bird down in the grass, figuring I wasn’t a killer if I didn’t see it die.
Love the descriptions of the baby bird.
I could feel it in MY hands- soft downy feathers , heart beating.
I like the reasioning in last sentence. It seems to hint at inner conflict.