A bird lies dead.

A bird lies dead
in the first frost of late autumn.
A dead sparrow, I think.
Something small, brownish,
dead at any rate. One
of the birds that hop,
not walk.

I think of the birds
that you see, wheeling as one
in numberless flocks, turning
and contracting - individual birds
beating wings so hard, you picture
tiny looks of concentration
on each bird's face.
The whole flock
appears at once, rushing up
into the air in one great shape,
as if at some sudden
invisible call.

Was it the cold
that stopped its puny heart?
Or did the cold come after -
drawing a cold blanket over.
Frost feathers frozen windows,
and no two snowflakes are alike
they say; nor any two feathers
on this little dude.
Poor guy. His head lies cocked,
as if listening.
I think that he died
waiting

waiting
for the call to take off.