That bird lying stiff and still

Among the brown leaves

And cobwebs in a corner

Of my little patio of concrete

And exposed aggregate

Has yellow feathers and has

Been there for a month.

 

One day I’ll be dead

And someone will find me

Among the leaves and wonder

If I crashed into something

And landed there or If I got dragged

There by the righteous mighty

Thing that killed me.

 

The glass door shows no angel-wing

Crash mark.  It must have been a cat.  Or a

Dragon.  On the back of my shopping

List I write this note

To self:  Crash

Hard enough to leave

A good mark.