by Louisa Muniz

Summer and peach trees everywhere.
Fruit falling into the lap of the earth.

The crows in the yard forage for food.
At the birdbath I find a sparrow on its back.

I watch for its rise and fall
but its legs and feet are frozen. Stiff in repose.

Is this a sign, omen, or message
for something I need to let go?

A breath away, the silent-standing maple flutters.
Doesn’t everything begin & end in stillness?

I call out to my husband in the house,
there’s a dead bird out here.

He yells back,
leave it alone.

I don’t listen.

Instead, I take care to scoop it
from the basin, lay it gently

in a plastic bag.
Dispose of it in the trash.

Later, I’ll be sorry I didn’t take
the time to bury it properly,

maybe even pray for it to soar high
into the spirit of vaulted sky.

But for now I am reminded of

all that is sacred & unpretentious
all that is wondrous & small.

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Louisa Muniz lives in Sayreville, N.J. She holds a Master’s in Curriculum and Instruction from Kean University. Her work has appeared Palette Poetry, SWWIM, PANK Magazine, One Art, and elsewhere. She won the Sheila-Na-Gig Spring Contest. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and a Pushcart Prize. Her chapbook, After Heavy Rains, was released in December, 2020. Her latest chapbook, The Body is No More Than a Greening Thing, is forthcoming.

by Louisa Muniz