The Dead Bird

It lies in the middle of the road,

Doll real and non-electric black,

Crushed feathers painted

double yellow,

An illegible stare—

Intact wings splayed—

Perfectly performing parts of some broken machine,

Windshield wipers on a totaled car

Or foot on an amputated leg

The silent unkindness

Glimpsed in the briefest of moments,

Seen only because there is nothing

There to be seen at all.