The Dead Finch

By John I. Blair

The dead finch
Already had begun
The aftermath of life.

I found it half immersed
In a backyard basin
Soaking in the sun’s heat,

A bloody feathered lump
Already hard to recognize
And baiting flies.

I’d smelled death in the air
Before I saw the thing
Or knew its name.

As soon as I could move
First I dumped the mess,
Sliding the bit of meat

Into goldenrods beside the patio
So it could turn to earth again
And feed new life,

Then I poured fresh water
Into a new container
For the thirsty birds waiting.

©2018 John I. Blair, 4/26/2018