that birds are adapting to Chenobyl Radiation (2014)
This dream is fragmented –
I pick through the remains, a small pile
of dark feathers, soft to the touch
and too easily rubbed to ashes between
my thumb and fingertip,
slowly piecing it together, laying out
the ink-black quills
and overlapping each plume
in hopes of finding order
amid the chaos.
Will this bird ever fly again,
a raven over Chenobyl?
Written for Bjorn's Weekend Prompt in The Imaginary Garden: Chenobyl and Our Fears