Sparrow

The bird was definitely dead. It was lying on the dirty white box in the gap by the back fence. The girl 
had snuck down there while her sister sulked on the swings and in the house her parents were arguing.

She wanted to move the mess of feathers from her hidey-hole, so picked up a damp stick from the mud 
and poked it. It was limp and brown but easy to push off the box and out of sight, leaving behind only a 
small stain on the off-white plastic. Amongst the dead leaves she couldn’t see where it fell, but still the 
little bird invaded her thoughts. It was as if one once-beady eye was watching her, accusing her of an 
injustice.

“I didn’t kill you. Why are you blaming me?” 
The bird kept its silence.
“Why did you die in my garden?” 
The bird stayed hidden on the earth.

She looked to the cloudless blue sky above and wished she escape upwards out of the dank hole.

-WR