I heard the shot behind the hill,
Pausing to log the dull report,
Thinking that death - or deaths – unseen
Were manifested out of sight,
Not mind. Swift shocks of rising birds
Spoke of events my mind inferred.  

A feathered body writ in flight
Spirals into closer view.
Fluttering quills, the uttering beak,
The watchful eye, the scribing claw.
But all of it has come to ground –
On the verge, a body, found

In dull and heavy silence. This
Is not the body I heard shot
But an old ****. The blood
Dried up, the eyes tight shut,
Half-open beak eternally
Clamp-locked in silent cry.