this is a grave of cottonwood trees
pale light flickering across my upturned face

from under black crowns he examines the shapes i make
with my mouth, colour uneven as a rainer cherry

creamy and pink

in an arc of white he will saturate my feathers
as i play dead, in the glade between his legs

does he imagine, i wonder, the circuits i will i make
in the endless blue above his head