Terminal Opera
I watched a mockingbird die this morning, With factory smoke and runway to backdrop her exit. Having banged her skull soundlessly against the thick window, she fell on her back. “Oh, no.” I heard myself say. The scaffold of weightless skeleton descended to graceful slow-motion. Feet lost their hold and sank; seed-eyes emptied, tailfeathers froze straight to blank, blue sky. Out. The man who heard me, looked. “Oh that.” He said, turning back to take an obliging picture for a mother nearby whose little boy did not notice the body on the ledge as he pressed his...
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