a poem by MIchael Hardin

Pesteringthe songbirds,

ascold in the Shumard oak.

Acoroner gives me a BB gun,

says“scare them away.”

I’venever shot anything

butaim for a jay in the canopy.

Iwing it, it falls spiraling

leftto the ground. Stunned.

Myfriend has to finish it

withthe flat end of a shovel.

Audubonkilled his birds,

histomes of avian death.

Thispoem inmemoriam:

a feather pressed against the page.

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