The Sidewaks iced and rigid
Shoeprints pressed like fossils in rocks
She navigates with care and for no reason
begins to run.
I have to hold back not to slip.
She noticed first the pink-edged feathers at the snowy curb.
The body lay beyond with its red open wound.
Black leather feet
ungainly awkward protrude up.
I was glad not to see the eyes
Blank and waiting.
Another solitary trumpeter swan flew over.
The trumpet sound lonely and sad.
Canada geese mate for life
I don’t know about trumpeters.
I hurried ahead and took the long way home
Not wanting to cross the dead bird again.
At the river a family of trumpeters:
Bright-white parents
Soft-grey young
Floating in the ice floes
Calling to one another
with that singular note
they often choose.