Summer Requiem
I hold the body in cupped hands,
nascent wings tightly folded
along its scrawny torso. A light
breeze lifts damp feathers, breathes
through my hair, brushes the invisible
down of my son's arms. He wants
to touch its beak, straighten
the twisted neck. We hear birds
call from the maples that join
their hands above our heads.
In this green cathedral, my son
hums a half-forgotten lullaby.