DEAD RED WING
            Scott Edward Anderson
                c. 1995
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    Of your famous epaulets
    only a hint
    on the shoulder,
                           like a wound
    opened when my
    finger luffs the down,
    still dappled with immaturity.
    Tangy scar from thorn or thicket,
    but not the end of you.

    Come spring, you'd be up
    in the low trees,
    on telephone wires,
    bowing foxtail in the marsh,
    your song become vain:--
    "Look-at-meeee...Look-at-meeee..."
    Flash of red on black wing
    poised to singe the eyes
    trained on you,
    a life-bird,
    through field glasses.

    In my hand you are stiff,
    unrecognizable.
    The woman
    who brought you
    to the birding group
    kept you
    in a Ziploc bag
    in the freezer,
    next to the roast
    and last week's red beans.
    Every evening,
    when she finished her vigil
    at the window,
    she took you out,
    rubbed your cold breast,
    ruffled feathers,
    sang your song.

                                         
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