Portrait of a Dead Bluejay

by bobbymillerwriting


The city hisses

such in and outs

with constancy


that the weightlessness

of the fragile blue



was nothing

to the pounding of the machines

and the grey


of skies

pushing down

his cupped breast.



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



the grey of the dark months

to come.


All this way

to rest for a winter

until the summer


light returns


to take him home