Fledgling.
I would have held her in my hand.
Tiny thing, not long left the nest.
Wind swept on acrid seas,
Plunged into the concrete.
From the twisted wreck a coiled plume,
Taste of iron and grit.
Unpick feather from bone.
Skin sagged
Cut, torn, stitched, and scarred
Pricked by saline drip.
A second chance on the second month,
Learning to fly again.
Gemma Compton - February 2024.