Wild Birds

Wild birds cross the evening sky,
Winging home for the night. 
The old ones say that they are stillborn babes,
Seeking out the last light.
The sky is a painting of many hues. 
A constantly changing wondrous sight.
The old ones say the sky mirrors life.
Wild birds punctuate with their flight.

I've seen them scavenge the last berry,
From a winter torn bush’s snowy blight. 
The old ones say it's the last feast of winter,
For those who won't see the spring rite. 

Wild birds peck a carcass clean. 
Their anger loud and bleak. 
The old ones say that it is revenge,
For a wrongful death they seek. 

So when I die don't bury me,
In the ground so deep,
Tie me in a tall tree,
My bones to pick for the meek.

Birds at sunset

Photo by Gloria Leigh Logan

Copyright 2004 © Ronald W. Hull


The Zorastorians and Some Native Americans
have placed their dead to be eaten by scavenging birds


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