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UPON A HIGHWAY

We left the ringnecked pheasant lying there
in noon-sun heat upon a highway where
unfeeling wheels would harrow her bruised flesh,
splinter her sings and dye her feathers fresh
with cold-darkening blood.  And soon no trace
of this god-lovely creature in this place
of nests and springtime flowers will be seen --
no trace of her rich-beauty feathered sheen.

God knows my husband tried -- swerved the car sharp -- 
to miss the startled bird.  Like twang of harp
string snapped, the impact came.  The pheasant lay
heaving, wild eyes begging death.  I turned away,
heard hard heel crush her head but dared not see
this affirmation of mortality.


      

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Copyright 1989 by Mildred A. Rose,

all rights reserved.
Originally published by The Music House Press.
No part of this collection may be reproduced,
except in short reviews, without the
author's permission.

Feb 08, 2012, 05:50 AM CST

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