Pheasant

The body lies in a clearing

long, tan feathers broken in a breeze
quiet for a few minutes, washed up
from an array of shades, the place
where they gave chase.
 
Body exhales in the sun, yellow eyes
set in red shivvers, blue-green throat
crushed by loners; there is no blood.
 
The wood’s cool ambition repels
a body that did not make it;
little tenderness in claw and beak.
Since the body could not embrace,
its finery is the tomb of the wood
still warm for new beginnings.

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