Mourning of the Blue Jay

In lieu of flowers
or moments of silence before closed caskets
even handfuls of dirt,
which stick under nails.
The beating of wing,
beaks pointing downward in agony
rage pointing at cats
who lap at wet wings and spread guts.
Everyone is a target
everyone is an enemy
who allowed for juveniles learning to fly
to be struck down in an instant
just before the rain we desperately needed.
No second chances
for tomorrow you may meet your fate in those maws
which languidly lick themselves now.
Now.
Now charge at them,
send them scurrying in fright,
and through the streets
blare out your alarm of warning and grief
retribution
for no one mourns the blue jay.