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.