Sta.sh
I buried a tiny bird today, in the rocky patch
out back, just beyond the gate,
where weeds grow near the garden and
the shade of a young tree hangs
over the sunken hole
and as I buried that little bird,
who was black with white belly
who had white spots, pokadots
trailing up black back and feathered
wings, I watched the wind gently
move those ruffled feathers,
ever so slightly, like flight without
movement
it is funny, for I thought this is
how your breath must be, cigarette and
coffee smell, as you blow smoke out
with a smile, fragile, like porcelain,
so easily broken, like the little body
now buried in the backyard
but still something else, like a final
flight, after the sun light has disappeared,
when all the birds are nested,
save for solely one, still feeling the
breeze beneath outstretched wings,
alone, beatific,
soaring on the back of soft breath
escaping from your lips
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