trodding through trees,
Mother Earth
fresh and sweet,
twice this season,
twice so recent.

stumbled upon,
on the floor of the woods,
a pair of perfect wings,
not a feather disturbed.
only the very center,
the body,
not there.

a spine cleaned bare,
remained right there,
next to the
wings
of the penultimate one.

only silent space,
lying between,
each wing,
between  
each one.

oh what mysteries surround,
lying around,
not making a sound.
only for those who wander
and look,
and,
look and,
wander around.