I saw a dead bird
floating down the irrigation canal
this morning.
And I couldn’t help but wonder
how it met its end.
Was it an electrical wire?
A barnyard fire?
Agricultural spray?
Or just plain old age?
And then I wondered
if its little soul had come back again?
I thought
maybe that little bird came back as?
Maybe a dog or a cat?
Maybe a little ant or the tiniest of gnats?
Or maybe that little bird came back
as an eagle,
and I pictured that.
The look on its little face
when it realized it could soar,
or when it discovered
that its wingspan
was six feet more.
It might have scared the shit out of it for a minute.
But then I’ll bet that little bird
had the most fun
it’s ever had in its life,
soaring and gliding,
swooping and diving.
Boy, I’d like to have seen that.
And then I thought
what’ll happen to me when I die?
I guess I don’t get to decide.
They say that’s God’s job.
So, I said a little prayer.
I said, God,
When I die
I know you probably won’t make me an angel
because, well,
I might have smoked
and drank too much.
Maybe, you’ll make me a dog
or a weasel or something.
Then I pleaded just a little bit
and asked, God, if you see fit,
maybe an eagle?
