The Green Finch

The Green Finch

He took you when you least expected it, probably
coiling closer as you gaped under July. A smooth ripple
of muscles, he closed his jaws around your matchstick
ribs and so flung shadows across your back and body,
twisted the flutter into a final struggle in the impartial
sunshine. A shrill coda.

I am dazzled by you here, dead, your eyes black and
your gape; your horny, translucent beak gaping in a last,
neverending song, a silence which will continue to pour
forth in gushes, even when the leafmould has covered you all over.