No stuffed bird in a museum display
Can convey the twitch and swirl that
Events hurl at something struggling to stay
Alive.
The march of feathers in a wing or breast
That infest this static creature dead and dry
Deny dynamics out of which their disciplines arose.
The claw, the beak that could wreak minor destruction
On prey, have had their day, and now mutely testify
To something that could fly, swim in the atmosphere
And play with the wind.
Those glass eyes never could surmise that wild reality
But the thing itself retains electric memories of living fire.
This clever preservation prompts expectation
That the head might turn, the eye might hesitate,
The creature leap from its dry twig
And crash against the glass in vain expectation
To be free.