It sits on the sidewalk with its eyes closed,
unmoving like the taxonomist found it
too soon and then forgot it in the sunshine.
It doesn't stir as I approach and I know
it doesn't have much life left inside.
A butcherbird that doesn't care for movement
doesn't care for catching food and impaling
the creatures on the sharp parts of the tree.
It doesn't whistle or sing its complex song;
instead, it waits unmoving on the sidewalk
until it can't even wait any longer.
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