Dead
Pheasant
by
F.J. Bergmann
the
bird was more fragile
than
whatever part of the vehicle it hit
a
posthumous revenge on the windshield
sunshine-yellow
corn spilled in the snow
slit
open the dappled breast
pull
back the soft shroud of spattered down
to
expose folds of cartilage and bone
the
origami ancestor beneath the elastic, feathered skin
a
wake is feasting
stuffed
with buttered bread crumbs
and
dried mushrooms soaked in warm red wine
to
incarnadine succulent roasted flesh
in
dreams of bird heaven, a crane floats over ocean,
wings
beating a steady rhythm blurred by the murmur of waves
flying
arrow-straight through cloud toward the horizon
where
it is snowing on the mountain
~
first published in Main Street Rag
