Dead Bird

I feel a well-captured urge to pick him up
and pull his wings out wide, even
if the joints groan, look him
in his opaque eye and feel his death
on him like an oily patina.

He's a little black spindle fat with thread.
He's the very glyph of a dead bird.
I want to look at his belly and find
the cat's teeth marks, the scar
of a power line that breathed fire.

Held out like this in my hands, his head
slung low, he looks like a man-made symbol--
the way we always span the wings out.
But I'd bet the birds put their ghost in the claw
or the throat, and wear their wings like a shroud.

Overhead, dozens of the same bird, alive
and loud, bounce along the power lines.
I've left the dead one untouched and started
walking home. Some flap their wings in place,
some perch like Reapers, still and watchful.