Dead Bird (Hawk).
The sand-colored fields of November sing of emptiness
When the wind whisks through their shredded stalks
And your dusty plumage called to mind their song
Of faded beauty, echoes of departed summer.
I don't know what you wanted to be, but certainly
You were not Icarus, for the sun is surely higher
Than five feet off the ground, which is where
Your graceful throat tore open against my windshield,
Leaving a spray of blueberry jam--I cannot think
Of it as blood--congealing dark purple just outside
The reach of the blades of my windshield wipers.
I did not see you roll in slow motion, and
You left no feathers smeared on the windshield
But simply landed, wretched hawk, in the middle of the road.