in the sun

you see
a dead bird
on the ground,
a robin.
orange breasted
and grey.
it's claws
still
soft. it's body
a puff
of life
extinguished.
you move it
with a stick.
nothing.
you wonder
what killed it.
and what
to do as it lies
in the april sun
on the grass
below a shrub.
you ponder
for a brief
moment why death
is so strange
despite being
so common.