Hours after the neighboring crop duster had filled
its yellow buzz to saturate the acreage,
I was on my weekly drive to town
and stopped at a songbird
lolling in the road
like a limb
gone to pins and needles.
In my hands,
the songbird’s heart was other—
It could not bring itself to fly. Or stand.
And a few feet away was another.
I took them back, in a box, to the land
I was living with for awhile,
where I was told that this just happens
the birds just fall.
In a few hours, both were dead.
And the crops?
They lived and breathed mostly
only how they were allowed;
they went somewhere, I don’t know,
perhaps to be broken down and into
something I would buy and use
And the birds?
I dug a hole
and buried them together.
I wished I was,
at the very least,