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.