The bird by my feet
was dead before I arrived.
Stripped of flesh and feathers
windblown to nearby cactus spines
the skeleton remains intact,
which informs me no cat or roadrunner
committed this violence.
A crack in its skull suggests
a startled window impact
and dizzy meander
to this brush protected place
fifteen yards from the patio glass.
I declare this section of the garden
an avian graveyard.
There is something fitting
about bee balm roots
twining a myriad of bones
six inches beneath the surface.
copyright @ 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney
Umflop 
This follows my own spiritual meanderings today (most days, really)…death as a part of life. Death as a thing to be held and made welcome. Not in a morbid way, but in the way of wholeness.
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Thank you Beth.
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