Flying low, beneath the lowest clouds is an old bird,
Old because he flies slow, more of a glide I suppose,
Old wings swing up and down briefly, like gasping
Lungs of those fish, but fish don’t have lungs, oh no,
They have gills, and when they lie upon the warm grass,
And gasp, just steps from their wet home, gasping,
Then the shadow of the old bird passes over. Some
Kind of last rite, of their gasping lives. Flutter
Go his wings and the old body rises higher, waiting
Patient, to see fish fins flicker one last time.
Gliding silent beneath the lowest clouds he waits
For us to leave the dying fish, his own last supper.