A Goldfinch

At the beginning of today, a goldfinch lay on the ground,
dead.
the casualty of a regional
catbird.
I lifted it up, and stroked its brilliant
tufts.
It didn't blend. It was a still as a
shuttlecock
batted too far out. It was an overlaid
memory,
a fantasy, a whisper, or the sound
of a half-recollected
darling's voice, indirectly
entreating.