Sweet, sweet singer, what a violent past you have.
Razor-toothed theropods, terrible in their hunger,
come pouring from your liquid throat.
The sounds of flesh rending filled primordial skies—
now only your warble remains.
The beast bequeathed you your hollow bones, the
open spaces in which you take flight.
Slaughter now proceeds in miniature:
a worm to fill the ever-gaping mouths,
gorging on meat no less alive for
lack of iron-bound blood or
the power to cry pain.
Yet such tiny tragedies feed your glorious iridescence:
You justify the loss forge another link
in the ancient chain.
comments to firstname.lastname@example.org
first electronic copyright
all rights revert to author