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.
roll in?