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The poem:

Small Box

I looked for a box big enough for the bird.
Not too big. I was going to bury it in the garden.

Yesterday, a sparrow, disoriented by the reflection in my window,
Flew into it. Hard.
It fluttered on the step, wings beating, frantic,
too hurt to fly away.

I picked it up, held it in my palm,
as a tiny, red flower grew in its mouth.
Eyes blinked, then closed for the last time.
No one to blame.
Man has put things in the way
of animals, birds,
and each other
since he walked the earth.