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.”