It was the way they all sat,
composed, dignified, serene;
there must have been hundreds
of them, transcendentally still, as if
they were nesting, as if they were
cradling something infinitely
precious, only the occasional
involuntary quiver of tawny wing
among the truckloads of carefully stacked
crates giving proof of their mortality.
Bless you, I whispered, as I passed them,
hurrying on my way to work.
Forgive us.
I like to think it made a difference,
that they went to the conveyor belt in
some meditative trance, recalling
how soft the morning light was, or
the dull clatter of dried corn
scattered to the ground. I like to think their
final moments were a willing offering up
of their one brief life to the great unknown.
But I know I am wrong.