arrived, open mouthed, black,
screeching harpy-like in the tree
branch above my picnic table, sure
to shit all over the white paint, something
dead hanging from her claws; mechanically

I open the window, remove
the screen, careful not to disturb
the beastly presence – ease barrels
one and two over the sill, silver
bullets prepped; cock, aim

feathers scatter to the ground, stick,
sprout, blossom as I watch – daffodils,
tulips, irises, lilies – the dead thing
scampers to freedom, a chill in pursuit,
as the bird silently changes colors: black
to blue to green to yellow to orange to
red to brown with a rainbow in the light,

a song emerging, slowly at first –
it has been a long winter; I’m ready,
as light glints off feathers, feet crouch
and spring is here again, skipping
across the grass, singing for worms.