just like blackbirds

the remains of the blackbird
stare up at me
from the site of her final battle:
some decaying flesh,
a few bones,
and lots of feathers,
strewn on the ground
in a circle of deathstruggle;

I pick up two tailfeathers,
sleek, dark and nearly perfect,
for a remembrance
of both bird and
the quicker cat,
now sleeping,
belly full and
prowess reconfirmed;

it all reminds me
that we wind up
just like blackbirds,
except for the feathers,
just like blackbirds.

March 19, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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