I dreamed my death in a pied shrike’s
song
In the twist of a trill I lost my soul
In the thrill of a lilt I shed my shape
In a cadence of melody died.
I unfurled serenely the coils of my life
into the breath of the sky made red
with the feather-flash flick of the spirit song
spun round the edge of a molten phrase
that died in the pied shrike dawn.
I woke from the dream in a sunburst's blaze
in the dazzle of day with the jubilant air
so wild-song-woven, so bird-brilliant,
you could give a quick tug to one corner
and with a quick flick wrap it lightly
around you and wear it all day like a cloak
new-made of sky-song and glad, bright air.
Wrapped in the day-cloak of feather-bright notes
listening, I found in the trill of the pied shrike
song death cadence the place where I
died; and the bird looked back, laughing,
her mothering eye on her new-made song,
with my death trilling on her tongue and my
life spinning elusively and wildly winding
like flight, like jewelled and glittering rivers
of sound from her throat into myriad sweet-
ly haunted fervidly haunting deaths.
Therefore, new-made, I also sang.
I shook out my feathers,
I opened my wings,
and flew.
by Wyverne
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