I find these bodies often in the yard
Raking, I’ll come across a nest
And lying nearby, a baby, featherless
Brought down by the wind that would have borne it
A brief few weeks later had it managed to survive
Or a mature bird, like this one, the dull, unkempt coat
Too old to carry on, a certain death in Nature’s time
I don’t treat these bodies like leaves I’m collecting
These aren’t litter to be scraped into piles
Then scooped up and tossed into plastic bags
Laying them in a safe space somewhere
I’ll take several handfuls of garden or potting soil
And bury them, help them give themselves back to the earth
So from their death and decay, new growth comes
Their dying meaning something other than falling victim
To the vagaries of weather or the truth of old age
Lanning Lee 