by Phil Huffy
The killer left few clues that might be found.
The violence could not have lasted long.
Right to the heart a mighty shock did pound,
from weaponry stiletto sharp and strong.
To find the cause required forensic guile.
A bullet’s flight was not the way, they said.
The eagle’s heart was pierced assassin style
and death occurred so fast, it hardly bled.
An expert sought to find a cause revealed,
and what the lifeless body had to show.
The answer there eventually congealed—
a mother loon had struck the mortal blow.
She’d risen up an put her beak in play
to avenge her hatchling’s death that summer day.
I open the window slightly,
admitting a tepid breeze
and the opinions
of a vocal meadowlark.
Unknowing and quiet,
Dad awaits his juice and pills,
balm to both patient
He is now the waning crescent
of a moon once brightly bold.
I stroke a withered hand
as the birdsongs continue.
Phil Huffy writes early and often at his kitchen table, casting a wide net as to form and substance. His work has appeared in dozens of journals and anthologies, including Schuylkill Valley Review, Eunoia, Pangolin, Orchards Poetry, The Lyric, and several haiku publications. He has published three collections of his poems and is proud to have recorded one of them (Magic Words) as an audiobook.