This compass-headed bird,
dead-reckoning South in Fall,
arcing its bloody breast
above the roof and cawing
some kind of bold farewell
to higher air and leaderless
V’d fliers off on it,
was shot (we saw and heard),
and staggered in the sky,
dripping blood and guts
down on the lobstered roofers
working in the sun.
It sang its downfall swan
song silently, now, spread
its wings, and then, as silent
as its eyes, it lay
resting on the roof,
face up, and looked at clouds,
(and some sweet heaven we
could almost see); but soon
pain shook it like an angry
nurse, so one good roofer
struck head from body with
a spade, merciful severance,
and catwalked off, bloody
spade dragging on the tiles,
a man of dirty duty,
unlike the murderer
of song, the wanton boy-
in-man, who pellet-shot
the bird (the shot we heard);
and this once musical,
most bright and beautiful,
small dust was part of all.