Death, Feathered

That spring
as ash tumbled down
from ashen skies
in scheduled burns,
and buzzing flies
infuriatingly invaded crevices
and folds,
six chicks hatched
from slimy eggs-
stick-skinny legs
eyes protruding like
tiny translucent moons
feathers drying into
fluffy clouds shaped like wings.
The weather was cold,
unseasonably so-
mornings still misty
and nights carrying the sting
of winter, still.

Is that what killed them?-
All six,
not sudden,
but a new and freshly
devastating death
every second morning
over two long weeks?

All I remember is
their half-shut eyes
small, deflated bodies amongst
the coffee grinds
of the compost heap.

“You put them in the compost?”
an incensed friend enquired.
But I could think of no better
way to honour death
that for what it is intended:
to rot in the body of the earth
and metamorphose into something
from which will spring
life.