there's a dead bird beside the
rosebush
slimy looking, as if the dog of death
had mouthed it repeatedly
and spat it out
the feet lie sideways
and stiff as parallels
the eye is lusterless, flat
up on the porch roof
another grey bird speaks,
cocks a saucy glance at its compatriot
both are sparrows to me –
identical, except for the minor boast
that one of them
argues from the rooftop
© 1990 by Beth Stevens