Upon Finding a Dead Turkey
Brother, you are fallen, wrecked, but
worth your weight in sparrows
to the flies
that thrill your final flight
toward wickerwork of quill and bone.
Shrouded now by Queen Anne’s Lace,
the shade of vultures
wreathes your head
(beaded red and blue in death as life).
Your chestnut fan and soot brown maille
hang limp, askew,
and trailing remnants
of a wing suggest coyote’s tracks.
Who was ever grateful for you that is not
And who will
note your loss but has not found you yet?
Or who will say one prayer for us?