The empty mocking bird nests
built into the Y crooks of branches
is enough circumstantial evidence.
In the spring, after the thaw,
the birds found the dead body,
plucked hair one strand at a time,
lined their twig nests with it.
Now the forensics team works
under a tent to keep the sun out
their eyes. Nobody knows how the corpse
came to this place, so near. Only
when a white orb of skull showed
through the moist dirt and a woman walker
mistook it for a budding mushroom,
did they find it. An infants body.
A crown of trees around it. A decade of under
brush it's blanket. Now the trees
are bare again. The child rises
To speak its name, yearning for the way home.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem