Magpie


I see you, magpie, satisfied upon
a dry, sintered bone pointing to the sky,
draped in withered leather.  There, you pluck on
ribs, tug at sinew, hop and prattle high
on Death's latest pile of rebellious dust.
Pecking in that stark patch of white, you preen
and loosen other parasites, or crusts
and crumbs of flesh that soil your striped wing.
You spoil the pastoral, and dare to cloak
in truth's chiaroscuro.  Bastard son,
diurnal thug of God's eternal joke,
I will not dignify your morbid pun,
or shrug the freshly dead in woeful wrong
by grooming you with light and graceful song.