So much death happens at toe level.
There are small clues--a few loose feathers,
the harder bits of beak, bone and claw--
but you have to flash on them and get down close
to see what they used to be. What most would take

at a glance for a wad of tumbled lint or a spole
of a cottonwood catkin blown dirty
across the sidewalk, you find was a bird
not yet a fledgling. Small deaths
rarely flaunt themselves. Each day

takes more away until all that remains
is the weight of air. No justice will be required
of the predator that plundered its safehaven
weeks ago and any requiem recited is left
to you who chance upon its resting place.

6-8-07
Revised, 9-19-07