I watched her leaping in long grass
as if pursuing butterflies,
and thought no more of it, until
this soft form on my kitchen floor:
a young scrub-turkey, almost fledged,
eyes sunken under golden lids,
the corpse still warm,
the breast's dark down
stirred by the draught through open doors
as if its heart still beat; a life
extinguished by fleet, stalking paws
and salivating feline jaws
to something pitiful, inert:
a little bird who fossicked
sunlit morning pastures unawares.
Nature morte
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2008
Свидетельство о публикации №108012000973
Свидетельство о публикации №108012000973
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