Blue Jay

a poem by MIchael Hardin

Pestering the songbirds,

a scold in the Shumard oak.

A coroner gives me a BB gun,

says “scare them away.”

I’ve never shot anything

but aim for a jay in the canopy.

I wing it, it falls spiraling

left to the ground. Stunned.

My friend has to finish it

with the flat end of a shovel.

Audubon killed his birds,

his tomes of avian death.

This poem in memoriam:

a feather pressed against the page.

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