Raising the Dead
It's Christmas Day but I count
Seven birds dead on the west
And north sides of the house.
Impacts are still discernible on the big
Windows, as if the smudges
Of children's mischievous palms-
Yet these are the blots of headlong death.
Broom and dustpan, I raise the dead
Over the hedge into the lot next
Door, the weeds and grasses
Consuming the clump of grey-green
Feathers like an earthen furnace.
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