Little bird
his back turned down in his cage
the fluffy down beneath the feathers
reminding me he was once a chick
and not so long ago
(though far away in bird years).
The stillness of him seems
like it should dash away soon
and he will flip himself back up
and start fluttering
and calling in that way
that zebra finches do
saying "hey, hey, hey, hey"
As his feathers fall into place, though,
the stillness sets in
slowly
like pouring syrup on your pancakes
Death, sickly sweet
crystallizing over his beak and legs
orange and stiff
like hard candies my great gramma used to eat.
And suddenly, even the movement of death stops
and there is nothing left but death.
Frozen as a candied bird
Oh, little bird
I'll be there soon