Pietà

How can death be so neat, so exquisite?
How did they die so cleanly, arranged
to satisfy the rules of art in a contrived
pyramid of corpses, a bird world ‘Pietà’?

They are so real I could pick them up,
nestle each perfect form in my hand,
spread out a wing for inspection,
stroke each downy feather.

But should I grieve for the birds, or marvel
at the artist’s skill, the unerring mastery
of form, and the delicate contrasts -
Life in the hand, death in the eye?
Requiem Æternam.