Portrait of a Dead Bluejay

by bobbymillerwriting

I.

The city hisses

such in and outs

with constancy

 

that the weightlessness

of the fragile blue

—jay

 

was nothing

to the pounding of the machines

and the grey

 

of skies

pushing down

his cupped breast.

 

II.

Against the terrace—stepped

brick in brown and red—

how like a wall to him now, the plantings

 

along the top, hostas

and a spray of acorns and cedar leaves

withered because—

 

they were banned

from water in the city; or,

the asphalt took it all

 

and the jay was dead; or, something unfair

so I took it as a gift,

that the biting air

 

was early November—preserving

the blue

of the jay

 

beneath

the grey of the dark months

to come.

 

All this way

to rest for a winter

until the summer

 

light returns

again

to take him home

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