image borrowed from bing
DEAD FINCH IN THE GUADALUPES
With nothing to do
wakeup coffee warming his guts
he remembers the finch
red at the throat
he’d found in the yard dead
beneath the immense gaze of El Capitán
empty eye
piece of fluff rotted
to a perfect skull
its frayed beauty struck
tears down his face
as he saw but did not want to see
its panache spoiled in final reckoning
he wanted as little to go
though he knew he would
as if he’d gone already
to the poppy’s yellow
bloom bravely
separate on a rocky shelf
crisp injunction to tearful woe.
Robert Burlingame
Posted over on Bobby Byrd's site White Panties and Dead Friends
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