The birds of earth are called
to die in secret ritual
high, high above upon rooftops unseen
their wings’ last heaving, landing a silent perch
cooing in faint gurgle, eyes gently closing,
heads pulled inward,
their bodies then transformed
to dust by God –
never seen, never recorded
leaving us with nothing
to prove the secret of their deaths
only the fresh new flocks
that must return to earth each year
This poem was first published in Harpoon Review, December 2014.
©Daniel von der Embse
Reblogged this on errinspelling.
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