Collecting Skulls

I don’t keep the carcasses
of birds that crash into
my window—flight
cut mid-wing by an invisible
force. They never see it
coming. Death is instant
to them: soaring, then slammed
to the ground neck snapped.

Whenever I see one, I pick it up
place it by a tree
under some brush
a few leaves. Sometimes
it is still warm. Sometimes
it is rigid with maggots
already at work. It’s going
back, contributing rather
than taking like myself.

I go back after a time to check

on the progress. I’ll keep
the skull if it hasn’t been stolen
by opportunistic grave robbers
looking for a trophy of their own.
There are four on my cabinet,
one with a tuft of feathers still
attached to remind me of the hurt,
the life now gone.

This Spring I put two more bodies
aside for the process. A cowbird
and a woodpecker. Maggots did
their business. The rain
washed them clean. As clean
as carcasses get. I snapped off
the heads for preservation
additions to my cabinet of wonders
and noticed a peculiarity.
The woodpecker’s tongue
was still in tact. The thin
tongue, like a sliver of bone
slid outside its beak. Even
in death, the woodpecker
reaffirmed that it had answers
I longed for, that it had won the race.

10/23/10