Death on this city street is unnatural. Declarative as a gunshot. Fatal as poverty. Blood stains on pristine sidewalks, a nuisance. If I died on this city street I would first feel tossed like litter, like the people thrown out of homes plowed over, away, buried under heedless highways trembling high rise condos. as screaming sirens of careening police cars, and ambulances, played the urban dirge. If I died on Weedon Island, I would be like a tree, my body felled onto the forgiving sand, reclaimed by the endless transformation as green leaves are yellowed, wasp wings dried to powder, my bones brittled into soil for Spring blooming magnolia trees, underfoot of cautious raccoons, busy sparrows, quiet turtles, sleepy snakes, hurried bugs. On Weedon Island life and death move with the rhythm of bird calls woot woot, pause, woot woot, pause. Rest and rise. Rise and rest. So the song, and the daylight comes and goes comes and goes like the final heartbeat, before the first breath.