She's not all there

I press my cheek against the bitterness of the bath's tiles,
listening to your labored, wavering breaths spill from your beak.
You lay in a crate above me, wrapped into the warmth of a blanket with your eyes clasped tight.
Your crop is engorged with food, hardened against your feathers.
Your body holds little life, you, a long-time friend, are on the brink of expiration.
Within any second now, you could wisp away,
far, far away, to a place not known or heard of by man.
As the tears brim over from my lids,
I think to myself,
those thoughts are coming.
The thoughts that remind you what an unethical crone mother nature depicts herself as.

---

One of my beloved hens, Zinnia, is slowly passing on at the tender age of three. I spent a good portion of my evening laying with her one last time, wishing there was more I could do for her. She will be missed by her family and friends.

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Thank you.

Unfortunately, she passed on last night. I did all I could, but at least she is no longer in pain.