Harry Calhoun wrote this.

Dear Little Thing
By Harry Calhoun

I think the baby bird was dying from the time
my shiny young Labradors, sweet and black,
chased it under the deck. But I lost control
of their chase and when I cornered it

by the tool shed it got away. All I wanted
was to put it over the fence, give it a chance
to die peacefully away from the pursuit
of others. But it got away and hours later

the dogs flushed it from under a yellow rosebush
and I heard its anguished squawk. My female
Lab obeyed my urgent “drop,” but when I went
to retrieve the tiny body it was too late. The beak

was moving, the heart was beating, but the damage
had been done. As I carried it toward the deck,
the wings fluttered spasmodically, the eyes closed
and the bird died in my hands.

I carried the body to rest on a nearby pile
of soft leaves and I cried for my poor innocent dogs
who were only doing what they do,
and for that sweet baby bird who died

in an animal’s jaws for no reason,
and for my poor mortal self
and for whatever makes this happen
to all of us.