Always, the drifts of white and gray feathers,

bits of gristle, perhaps a breastbone wreathed

with shreds of flesh. When does the raptor

take his meals? I only ever see the remains.

Just as well. The pine tree, with its long,

skeletal fingers, is sinister enough, scratching

at my window and shredding the sunlight

on a windy day. I’m no fan of pigeons,

and a predator’s got to eat, but I’ve no desire

to see the pearly plumes fall like flakes

of snow through the pine’s feathered limbs,

to hear the carnage as it unfolds—or rather,

as the pigeon is unfolded, like a takeout burrito

or a gift shrouded in coils of paper. Or perhaps

I do wish to see it, to witness the red in beak

and claw of some bird of prey practicing its own

savage kind of religion, to remind me that violence

is never far from the outstretched wing, the lilting

song of a robin perched on the old wood fence,

which is itself considering surrendering to the ground.