playing at funeral

in a cardboard

box

we take

the small bird, a parakeet,

no bigger than the palm

of a hand,

bright yellow

and green

now folded into

it's own wings,

we take it

to the back of the yard

for burial.

behind the shed, beneath

old brush

and trees.

we're playing at death

now.

teaching

the young,

how it's done.

we take the shovel

and dig,

set the box into

the shallow grave and cover

it up

with freshly turned

dirt and grass.

we say

a few words.

we thank the bird for

it's short

sweet life,

the whistling we heard,

then go out to lunch

for happy meals.