You walk past as if the first death
was a bird –enormous feathers
half stone, half outworn, one by one

though they still need more time
could calm these dead, spread out
airborne, older than the number 10

than this hillside letting its small footsteps
fall standing erect, frightened
–you come here to listen for eggs

for echoes, for brothers, sisters –it’s useless
flying so close, wing tip to wing tip
till a moon is all that’s left

bringing you its black, covers you
already one hand on your shoulder
counting your fingers out loud to 0.