The Ending (the Never Returning)

The vultures are wheeling in the sky,

carrion before they carnivore
the carrion they adore.

And the tree branches are curling
in and around fingers, long before the

grasping, long before.

And the sky is unrolling

like a sheet of lead, and everything's

grey, everyone's dead.

And the land is hollow, pock-holed,

the wind howls, and has forgone its hallow,

the holy now only

in remembrance's marrow. But no one

remembers the Sparrow, jocular,
and the Robin's wing sunk

in that last, final spring.