For a month and a half their bodies rested flatly
in the rain gutter, mother and tiny child.
At first, it seemed they idled awkwardly:
Brown down and water-dappled feathers stirred
drowsily in the wind two rains ago.
This morning they were in an inky pool
of slow draining water and twigs. All dry
by afternoon. The little one is scarcely
a wet rat’s head or fallen walnut shell.
The larger one at least still looks like a bird:
with twiggy feet, three toes, an oval body
distinct from the smaller circle of her head.
She grows museum-like, a bird from a text,
all specimen as she reduces to bone.
Her skeleton is a paradigm for all
of those with wings: just feather and flesh out.