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