there were two dead baby birds on the concrete apron
out back, one the first night, another the second
i buried them where i pulled the dead lilacs out, where
the dirt was still soft, tamping the surface down
with the back of the shovel so that hopefully the coyotes
and neighborhood cats wouldn’t get at them
small and huddled and mostly pink, they looked restful,
their comically large eyes closed softly, their legs
curled up under their overround bodies
dusty pink, crow-footed, like unbaked dough
i called you out, and you said poor thing because that is
what you say to small dead creatures, poor thing
the night was hot, and quiet except for a dog barking
in the near distance, the hiss of starlight
the waxing moon was looking down at our little burnt
patch of earth, with the dead lilacs
and the dead birds, and the dust, and thinking oh, oh
poor thing, poor thing
–
August Ryan lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico, and whistles while depositing half-drunk coffee cups around the home he shares with his partner. The cats watch on with interest. You may find his work in El Portal, Thimble Literary Magazine, and The Hemlock Journal, among others.