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by Carol Casey
Baby bird in the path,
damp confusion of taupe skin,
ebony beginnings of feathers,
oversized beak, beginnings of song,
upturned, crooked throat, offering.
The hum of flies, already at work,
a small stench wafting molecules released.
A short, empty screech from the tree above.
A once-upon-a-time scrap of Camelot
that took form, drew breath, saw sky.