Sweet, sweet singer, what a violent past you have.

Razor-toothed theropods, terrible in their hunger,
   come pouring from your liquid throat.
The sounds of flesh rending filled primordial skies—
   now only your warble remains.

The beast bequeathed you your hollow bones, the
   open spaces in which you take flight.
Slaughter now proceeds in miniature:
   a moth
   a fly
   a worm          to fill the ever-gaping mouths,
gorging on meat no less alive for
   lack of iron-bound blood or
   the power to cry pain.

Yet such tiny tragedies feed your glorious iridescence:
You justify the loss   forge another link
in the ancient chain.

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