In The Case


No stuffed bird in a museum display

Can convey the twitch and swirl that

Events hurl at something struggling to stay


The march of feathers in a wing or breast

That infest this static creature dead and dry

Deny dynamics out of which their disciplines arose.

The claw, the beak that could wreak minor destruction

On prey, have had their day, and now mutely testify

To something that could fly, swim in the atmosphere

And play with the wind.

Those glass eyes never could surmise that wild reality

But the thing itself retains electric memories of living fire.

This clever preservation prompts expectation

That the head might turn, the eye might hesitate,

The creature leap from its dry twig

And crash against the glass in vain expectation

To be free.

3 thoughts on “In The Case

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