The squawks and flaps
are like a host of angels falling.
Feathers scatter with each step,
a swirl of snow flurries.
Her family uses the remains—
feet fried, eyes pickled.
On the bank of the river,
a steering wheel dangles
from a rope. While the boys
swing and jump, she skips stones,
noting the brief buoyancy
before each is sucked back into the river.