the dead bird stared.
it had hollowed eyes, unshuttered
yet blind-
a trait we all share
at least once before dying.
and then, once again.
also
each feather,
once worn inside the sky
where it crucified wind,
was arranged just so:
a picnic blanket over earth,
a grave-marker and peace offering
to each new friend,
arrived to feast another circle empty.
not closed.
[ for vengeance is not involved in this ]
this final birthday-
come
to take this flesh, these quiet bones
that soared,
so sensitive to the noise of air,
to memories of wing.
and now to its absence.

~Pamela








30 old applause
