The Investigation
Heres a poem I wrote a while ago (2005 probably) but recently reworked.
The Investigation:
The discovery of fourteen dead birds
each scattered at separate points
across a smooth and empty seashore
spurred me into an investigation:
"Why are there so many dead birds?"
I asked.
First, a sailor
Eyes crinkled, shielded from the sun
skin wrinkled, dragged down by gravity
chin jutted forward, nose a crooked arch
His sharp stare toward the sky
blue sheets melted into blue sheets
dead bird's relatives
dashing, darting, swirling.
His voice rumbles
vibrating and whistling
through the indentations in his throat
"Fallen birds are an omen
of cloudy skies and stormy seas."
Second, a mother
three bouncing children
twist and turn around her
energy spilling from their pores.
She cringes and cries through
the fury of their tangled movement
"Filthy Birds! Germ invested rodents of the air!
They are all diseased,
doomed for a dirty death."
Third, an amateur scientist
crouched, examining plump seas shore succulents
grouchy at my interruption
but intrigued by the question.
Lines in her face curl with thought
Rummaging through
the bent and musky pages in her head
"Every one in a while,
the water currents shift and bring with them
algae that is poison to these birds."
at the end of my query
I return to the seventh bird
in the crooked dot-to-dot line.
I stand over its body,
feathers still, no longer rustled with flight
neck bent, eyes silent
limp against the sand
flesh rotting under desolate sunlight
exposing glistening white bone.
The Investigation:
The discovery of fourteen dead birds
each scattered at separate points
across a smooth and empty seashore
spurred me into an investigation:
"Why are there so many dead birds?"
I asked.
First, a sailor
Eyes crinkled, shielded from the sun
skin wrinkled, dragged down by gravity
chin jutted forward, nose a crooked arch
His sharp stare toward the sky
blue sheets melted into blue sheets
dead bird's relatives
dashing, darting, swirling.
His voice rumbles
vibrating and whistling
through the indentations in his throat
"Fallen birds are an omen
of cloudy skies and stormy seas."
Second, a mother
three bouncing children
twist and turn around her
energy spilling from their pores.
She cringes and cries through
the fury of their tangled movement
"Filthy Birds! Germ invested rodents of the air!
They are all diseased,
doomed for a dirty death."
Third, an amateur scientist
crouched, examining plump seas shore succulents
grouchy at my interruption
but intrigued by the question.
Lines in her face curl with thought
Rummaging through
the bent and musky pages in her head
"Every one in a while,
the water currents shift and bring with them
algae that is poison to these birds."
at the end of my query
I return to the seventh bird
in the crooked dot-to-dot line.
I stand over its body,
feathers still, no longer rustled with flight
neck bent, eyes silent
limp against the sand
flesh rotting under desolate sunlight
exposing glistening white bone.