It is pouring with rain,
white noise beyond the windows.
I slip my feet into Marla’s wellies,
clomp to the side of the house
and pour a box of plastics
into the recycling bin.
By my feet a wet lump,
a clump of unflying feathers.
The blackbird is back,
this time with no nerve at all –
dead, still, soaking in the rain.
Water pummels me from the sky
but I won’t let Marla find the bird.
Wish I hadn’t myself.
I pick him up,
heavy in my bare hands,
and take him to the compost pile
at the back of the garden,
bury him in brown leaves.
I hope he will decay back into the earth
and return as something beautiful.
At the back door I hear a mewling.
A hungry cat on the hunt.