No Salvage

The ghost of the impact, white on the window,

catches my eye as I enter the kitchen:

a dove, sprawled wide in its this—

is-my-beloved-son yawn.

Warm flesh through feathers pressed

like a sponge-print.

The last breath out is the first to be drawn.

Under the window, on the patio table,

a kestrel is plucking the flunked corpse:

discarding the moving-you-

over-the-face-of-the-water wings,

detaching the head, and ploughing

a red trough.

I cough a protest.  No bird sings.