HEAT-WAVE

A song thrush rubs her chest into dry dust.
Her beak opens — fledgling begging,
her tongue, a sharp thorn.
A white film covers her closed eyes.
She fans her tail like the main sail
of a yacht,
searching for a breeze.
Her wings lift and shiver
in a momentary mirage
of cool North winds.
Now she lies deathly still,
blending brown into brown.
Ghost ship.
My tongue feels like a twig in my throat.