as she notices its corpse i realize this is the first being she will ever mourn.
i watch her eyes sink as she bends down to examine
its broken beak and tattered brown feathers
is it as elegant as it was in the sky?
no matter. she takes the shovel in her grubby hands, digs a shallow hole,
and buries the poor little thing. she picks wildflowers
from our lawn, arranging them on the casket.
she sprinkles tears over the mulch.
and when she runs to me blubbering, i pray that she will always host
funerals for birds, the sole weeper for their lost lives
that she will love dead birds with a pure heart
and that they will love her too.
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