When there are no birds at the feeder, there’s usually a reason, and sometimes the story is revealed in a few feathers left behind. NaPoWriMo suggested “try writing your own poem that uses an animal that shows up in myths and legends as a metaphor for some aspect of a contemporary person’s life. Include one spoken phrase.” I’m not sure I managed all that but it did gather some thoughts on life in the yard.
In the quiet yard
a pile of feathers, yellow, black
left behind in the struggle
now all is still, no mourning
no sad songs, no vigils
At the end of the drive
tan and black feathers, scattered
not by wind but hunger
I take one, feeling complicit
knowing it was a mourning dove
knowing it was a sudden death
but as I turn to go I hear
three crows yelling to the mourners
Hey! We found him! We will give chase!
