nature's last act

hope fluttering

the broken-wing bird

fights against

ebbing of his life force

unknowing, unknown

one year ago

in his sparkling prime

bright feathered

he flew majestic

king of the treetops

now he awaits

wriggling death kisses

from maggots

voracious children

of nature’s last act

With increasing ferocity muscular dystrophy digests my 75-year-old body.

Outside my window the leafs have begun to turn.

Will I survive another winter once more to inhale the perfume of spring?

Who knows? Shit happens. It’s terrible. It’s okay.

We deal with it because we have to.

So it goes.