Two birds sing on the power lines above,
and I wonder if they know he’s dead, crooning
a funeral hymn, a winged ode to a lost flight.
I am cruel, staring and continuing to sip my brown coffee,
as a breeze lifts the hairs on my arm.
My friend says,
“It’s arresting and it makes you pause.
There was no delight in its death I’m sure
but perhaps of a wing that will not fly –
a could have… if only… and so then…
naturally pointing my thoughts to living.”
So I am elevated to a witness,
obliquely closer to nature,
sharing in its morbid beauty,
a willing guest in the circle of life.