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.

Photo by Gloria Leigh Logan Copyright 2004 © Ronald W. Hull 5/23/04 The Zorastorians and Some Native Americans have placed their dead to be eaten by scavenging birds Mail More Poems My Place Read War's End, the Novel