April 25, 2019
He died in the height of a Georgia spring
on a garden morning green as Eden
when the slant of sunlight warms the wings
and lifts a feast of flying insects.
Far from his tropical winter retreat,
he'd crossed the Gulf on a perilous night
and followed unfolding canopy north,
drawn toward summer breeding grounds.
But never made it. In a spell of delight
he dipped below a break in the woods,
swooping and swerving for food, for joy.
Wide blue skies were in his sight.
The end was abrupt.
He banked hard into high glass –
dead before he hit the ground.
Rose-breasted beauty fell at my feet.
I cradled his warmth in my aging hands
to will his broken body back. My hope
was vain – billions fall in the flyways
in a world diminished bird by bird.
