Scavenger’s Blues

blood-scented winter wind
tastes of spring mud
stings like paint chips
splintered into nailbeds

i look at my feet as i walk, collecting pinecones

feathered treebark falls
trodden down
on sidewalks
like crisp, flattened birds

saved between dictionary pages for decades

the hallowed parts of us
will transcend all
to be found and cherished

sought by the scavenger, immutable as nature