Beaks & Bones
in memory of Mary Oliver
Blackbirds are dying,
flying into the virtual world
reflected in the wall of windows
that line the back of my home.
Drawn to the alternative
canopy of limbs and leaves
backlit by a cool blue
cloud-laden sky, they fly
towards the reflected light,
right into the glare
of glass that passes for reality,
its sheen of greens and grays,
a cruel manufactured illusion.
Like your life, it all ends
on impact, magnificent flights
of fancy snapped to a final clap
against glass, precious miracles
crumpling into caskets of grass,
necks and beaks bent and broken,
tiny hearts stopped on a dime of time.
Oh, the beauty of demise:
a tragic ballet, a nursery rhyme,
a lesson in what lasts, a love song,
tangible proof of the mystical power
breathless, I whisper
your words as knowing requiem
for these dark and feathery puffs
of beaks and bones.
by Anne McCrady