outside, a kingfisher falls from a snowy tree
and plants the blood from his frozen wings.

inside, i see the plunge and, as i stand,
feel my stomach drop
down to my feet.
that bird’s been dying for so long,
its song whistling flatly through its beak,
the tiny flash of color for my days
expiring, suffering, visibly diseased.

my sigh of relief for ended anguish
flows like a frozen river from my chest.
should i revel in my freedom?
should i be grateful for my breath?

outside, a vulture comes,
and inside, i fall back into my
now-cold seat.