Wings rutting through dust like glittering, 
            hardened sky, I’m fool enough to believe 
                          this bird’s dying, not sunning—body unfurling

like a gasoline stain, acrid iridescence rushing 
            asphalt that could fry an egg to savory silk.

I drop to my knees as he arches and lashes, 
            scapulars open as mantle feathers curl and lilt. 
                        He’s a Japanese fan, throat tucked flush, tail

an untamed fractal spent as the heat striating 
             him.

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Sara Henning, Thrush

Tagged: bird poem, fractal, poetry, Sara Henning, Sara Henning poem, starling poem, starlings, Thrush literary journal, wings