For a Bird Found Dead on my Doorstep
We found him after lunch just
out of the snow.
My wife touched the still-warm breast,
one limber claw drawn in an infant curl.
Yellow as sun, too exotic for our climate,
he would have come while we were eating,
sent while the season’s first stormfall
and its clouds clung to surrounding hills.
We watch those clouds leave our valley today.
Trees and brambles shake down their snow.
I remind her we don’t always know
how hunger approaches our door.
We look for it as we can, ignorant
of where it comes from, and when.
Editor’s Note: The simple yet surprising images in this poem convey meaning without pretension. The enjambment is particularly well chosen.
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