In fertile ground when you plumb the land
don’t be surprised if she drowns
in the nest with the other chickadees
far above the forest
the cold still penetrates down ****
the chirps are fewer here
each intake of breath is sharp
small heads peer about
not yet old, not yet wise, not yet ready
to fly
but there she is below you
peak for a time
she laps at the well
poisoned by dung
she’s purple and gangrenous
yes gangrenous for the way’s been difficult
she says goodnight
and nestles into the underbrush
fading light ushers in white flakes
it’s quiet, her eyes won’t open again
the well floods
and rivulets spread down the hill
she is too cold to feel water slip up her nostrils
into her lungs
too numb to question
there she lies
drowning in her own silence
there she dies
too weak to scream