He Chose to Fly

I made a nest with cradled palms extended.
I gently wrapped a bird inside.
I tried to carry him to safety
But he broke me and claimed the sky.

A short-lived flight, he ascended and then sputtering fell,
Kamikaze in acrobatic descent,
the pavement now left him floundering.
I stood at a distance,
paralyzed with bewildered sadness,
Knowing I had tried to save him,
but was now horrified witness to his last flight.
I became the undertaker unbeknownst.
Unable to end the suffering,
lifting him up,
then leaving him to die.
I became the accomplice to his final attempt at life.

Why did he fly?
Did I scare him?
Were my hands foreign and thus fear forced his flight?
I was gentle as I gathered him.
I saw a sort of trust in his little red eyes.
A helplessness that comes from knowing there is no other option than to trust.
He didn't try to fight me but rather fit quite perfectly in my hands.
I had no idea that he would try to escape them.
Why did he fly?
Was it in lifting him up, that I gave a sense of height and courage which compelled him to try?
And as he ascended skyward, did he know it was his last act of inherent aviary glee?
Did he believe for a moment, as he surveyed the parking lot,
that he was going to be okay?
Or did he know this was his last time at height,
measured out in moments and broken wing flaps.

Why did he fly with broken wing?
I should have held him tighter.
I should have kept him close to the ground.
I should have just taken him home and clipped his wings but saved his life.
But instead, he chose to fly.
And I had no choice,
but to let him.
Fly.
One.
Last.
Time.