Three weeks ago a bird, sparrow,
lay dead on the road, with spread
wings, an avian Christ on its
cross of gravel awaiting me.
I couldn't get myself to take shovel
and move, bury it, like I should have.
A beautiful thing dead - its passing
repelled me, the solidity of its death.
Now its gone, nothing remaining
where I have refused to look while
passing these weeks, and where
I gazed in error today.
Resurrected, the avian Christ,
recycled into life by other beings
less squeamish about death
than this Homo sapiens.
20.06.2024
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