Monday, March 23, 2009

5:1: Outnumbered.

The birds have taken your fallen limbs
and crafted a nest high atop your trunk.

Twisted joints and intertwined fingers,
nestle all the tiny, hairless baby birds.

Momma bird has begun to hunt the cracks
in the ground to calm her starving young.

The dry summer has left the soil empty,
all the earthworms have turned to dead grass.

At the base of an aging tree, she finds the delicacy
of my feeble mind, hunkered down under the sun.

Mindlessly, I see the bird load the dead weight
upon her back, like a champion strong man.

With her pulsing birdy steps, Momma bird
heads home to gorge her beloved brood.

Stir-fried in the humid bone bowl, the brain
is a plenty for the baby beaks gaped wide.

Full-stomached, Momma bird is a lid
over the nest of you, grave protector.

I see you start to sway, wondering,
why have all the birds quit their chirping?

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