On The Beaten Path
One morning as I sauntered to the woods,
I spied a seagull standing by the road.
One bloody wing was hanging at his side,
And from its feathers stuck a jagged bone.
Around him what was left of the last snow
Was melting in a drizzle of cold rain,
And rising in a fog that blurred the trees.
I hesitantly wondered what to do.
No sign of pain or struggle could I sense,
Except my own, as he looked right through me,
Eye gazing calmly at the universe.
No fear or even weakness seemed in him:
Helpless himself, he sought no help from one
Whose suffering was less natural than his own.