One Thanksgiving his mother told me this story

About how as a child he used to catch bugs 

He loved them 

He would run around the yard scooping them into a little mesh box

She said one time he forgot about the little prisoners in his bug catcher

They died

He cried 

What a sweet, innocent boy 


A cage of gentle hands

Is still a cage

I know that now

I would have climbed into that cage if he asked me 

I would have died too


Now there is a new boy

His mother told me this story 

About how as a child he watched birds

Admiring them  

Putting out food to help them grow 

Never getting too close as to scare them away 


If ever you have the choice:

A bug collector or a bird watcher 

Choose the bird watcher 



This poem is about: 
Our world


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