Wings fold underneath and the eyes bead out intensity. Still of motion. No movement, no flight, no sense or might. Feeble sweep along the cement backyard and the inanimate animation of the back and breathing thrills the feel of seeing death creep by minute after minute.
Cold in the warmth of the heat up from below, a cool breeze suffers the waste of keeping the chills down. Back and forth on the ditch of soil deep undone by the garden hoe, and no silence stays ever as quiet as every breath fading out and escaping.
Feral and the mangy ready in the wings for the wings. Ready to take the dusk and eat their find. Sickening, a scent from the black bird pecking at the chest to keep the head above the horizon.
And gone.
Monday, 30 July 2007
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