On a bright, crisp morning
My wife finds a finch
Dead in our bird feeder
It is still in the feeding position
I don rubber gloves
And slowly remove it
The head was jammed in the feeding hole
A yoke of plastic
It must have broken its neck
Straining for an elusive sunflower seed
I extricate its hard, feathery body
The ants had already begun
To defile its sacred flesh
I dig a small grave
Deep, deep in the yard
Place a stone marker
Miniature Stonehenge
“He died doing what he loves,”
They say. This bird died
At breakfast, trying to retrieve
A final tasty morsel.
“Why must the simple
Pleasure of eating bring
Such pain?” I ask.
The bird answers me
From its quiet grave:
“Please enjoy your life
While you still can.”