They lay where they fell
The hard road baking
between feathers and shoes
The bike in the milkweed
Between the escaping pickup
and the burst organs of flight
The truck from behind
With a roar and a shout
in the joy of the scare
Too yellow for shadows
The clipped flicker
more shadow than shape
Its blue-lidded eye its powerless clutch
Dead stopped in the merciless sun
pooling on chips and hot tar
And he smelled the corn standing in tassle
And he heard the river of blackbirds
pour into the passage of time
As he crested the hill
Leaned into the bend
picking up speed
