A flicker flew above the grass,
barely aloft in flight,
toward home on the horizon
to feed and spend the night.
I never saw it coming
until it was too late,
and the spike upon my Chrysler's hood,
the Transfixer of Fate,
flayed, eviscerated and dispassionately pitched
the bird's now lifeless body
and left it in the ditch.
Feathers, bowels and blood were it's final, silent scream.
When I got home and washed the car, it all came off quite clean.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is a terrific poem, Bill. An opinion probably not shared by the bird but, I like it. A detailed account of an, all to common occurance. Well done, my friend. Richard