If I had looked up
from my work
just seconds earlier
I would have seen
the butcher bird
tip the fat arrow of his body
and dip his blade beak
into the dark reflection of birdbath
to drink and stir the water
but when I saw him
he was motionless
and it seemed the water moved
of its own volition
bulging uneasily
as if a monster was housed
or a baby or some other
confined thing
under the surface
Just before I turned back to
my book
the butcher bird began
to whet his surgeon tool
on the stone edge
ready to assist with a knife
cut
in some unholy birthing
When I looked again
he was gone
flown
or dragged under
by a clawed hand
And the water was unnaturally
still
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