The spring wind has left
a red-blotted bird pressed and still
between fallen pine cones
on its stippled soft belly.
It is not whole-formed.
It has no feathers
or hints of feathers.
Its wings are wheat stalks
drying under warm weather.
Two curves of shell like petals
surround its flowering,
as if the scarlet center is
a place bees could land.
It is early in the season yet.
The nest will be rebuilt
in the same fork of branch,
as the old one will decay to soil
and will become again
the evergreen.
Turned with one eye
glassed with shining sky and its neck bent
sideways like a rooting swan’s,
the other eye opens dark against the earth,
as if even an unfinished heart knew
the brief struggles of a life, and
it was wise enough in its one breath.