Still clutching
some unseen twig,
you lie on frozen ground,
matchstick legs seemingly
too delicate to have supported you,
brick tail feathers spread
and circling inward, tawny
head cocked back,
muscles curling your body
into a taut “Y.”
As I reach, longing
to stroke your soft
tufted crown, I start
at the mask
of opaque eyes blackly
open, for you now
see what I cannot
and are become
what I can
no longer
touch.
