Sunday, August 26


they bow in unison at the seed font
fly through each other
sing their hollow bones over the field of reeds,
drought has turned them to ether

on our morning walk
she finds them first,
nudges them with her nose
the ones who have fallen from the sky,
who lie still with their breasts plucked out

I cannot accustom myself to these small deaths.

my cupped hands are filled with slightness
feathers who knew only flight
leave their host,
trail behind me
for one last ride on the wind
as I return their bodies to Paradise

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