Dead Bird

Sarah Wyman

up the tree                                           housed in plywood

no one could                                        find a space

see where a bird cap                          slaughtered by the dawn

left half under mulch                          that creeps light in predictably

had surrendered its feathers             to smear a message

scalped red star                                   pointing south west at once

with black backbones                         arrow aviaries

to each frond now flattened              as though the route were doomed

is it a squirrel                                       running over thick roots

that tumbles a dry seed                      flexing muscled bark arms

down the polymer roof                      to dirt declivities

or the wind’s glancing puff                blows blown loam

as the pressure rises                           too wet to fly

and gray storm clouds                        that journey ended.

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